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This book is due at the WALTER R. DAVIS LIBRARY on 
the last date stamped under “Date Due.” If not on hold, it may 
be renewed by bringing it to the library. 


DATE DATE 
DUE RETURNED DUE RETURNED 








Form No 513, 
Rev. 1/84 








Digitized by the Internet Archive 
| in 2022 with funding from 
University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill 





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WOMEN OF THE SOUTH 


DISTINGUISHED IN LITERATURE, 


PwUSTRATED. WITH PORTRAITS ON STEEL, 


BY MARY: FORREST. 


‘* There is more owing her than is paid.’’—All’s Well that Ends fell. 
‘* There are some shrewd contents in that same paper.’’—Merchant of Venice. 


‘How many things by season seasoned are 
To their right praise and true perfection.”’—Jbid. 





NEW YORK: 
CHARLES B. RICHARDSON, 
441 BROADWAY. 


1865, 


ENTERED, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1860, by 
DERBY & JACKSON, 


Tn the Clerk’s Office of the District Court of the United States, for the Southern District of New York. 


Qa A. ALVORD, PRINTER, 


THIS: VOLUME 


18 TENDERLY INSCRIBED TO 
at eae A ; 


2 


me 


PMI LO TES 
\ 


- 








JEN) lay ander cae sii bite.. 





- <> 
OCTAVIA WALTON LE VERT, . : : ; : : ‘ . FRONTISPIECE 
ANNA CORA MOWATT RITCHIE, ; : : ; ‘ : : ; A of) 
MARIA J. McINTOSH, . ; : ; 3 . : ‘ ; 4 : . 163 
MARION HARLAND, : ‘ ; F ; ‘ : ; : : : . 195 
ROSA VERTNER JOHNSON, . : : , ‘ . ‘ . 2 : 246 
AUGUSTA J. EVANS, . , : : ; , } ; : , : . 328 


L. VIRGINIA FRENCH, . : : F : é : : : ‘ ; . 439 





““Neasure not the work 
Until the day ’s out and the labor done ; 
Then bring your gauges. If the day’s work’s scant, 
Why, call it scant; affect no compromise ; 
And, in that we have nobly striven at least,’ 
Deal with us nobly, women though we be, 
And honor us with truth, if not with praise.” 


AURORA LEIGH. 





PREFAOR. 


_ READER: 


If you would establish a belief in magnetic 
currents, personal and spiritual, write a book of 
biographical sketches. There is nothing like it for 
bringing one’s sharpest instincts into play, and— 
so to speak—charging one’s self fully with idiocratic 
influence. There are the letters from the several 
‘“subjects,”—every chirographical kink a corporeal or 
psychological sign ; every sentence an efflux of being, 
-attracting or repelling you. Then the data, studded 
with epochs, from each one of which depends a 
‘tale—close folded, it is true, yet, by virtue of. the 
clairvoyance you have assumed, electric and portentous. 
Living so many lives, one feels, of course, preter- 
naturally old—and wise—when the task is ended. 
Happy biographer, whose lines, like my own, have 
fallen in “ pleasant places!” 

Women of the South, whose names are herein 
written—who, one after another, have sat down in 
the chair before me (now a melancholy void), filling 
the air with such a gracious ‘bonhomie of presence ” 
—a, flitting, fair, familiar company—to you I would 
say, | have aimed at impartial estimates of your writ- 


v; 


V1 PREFACE. 


ings, while I have presented each one with such fullness 
of detail as, from personal and other knowledge, | felt 
justified in using freely. In the necessity for dispatch, 
however, the work—going to press in detached parts— 
was found at last to extend far beyond the limits pro- 
posed; no alternative remained but to cut down the 
sum of specimen extracts still unstereotyped, and 
apportion to each one of their authors but a small 
part of what was originally assigned them. With this 
broader estimate of Southern resource, a larger book 
and “‘ free circulation” shall sometime make amends. 

Deserving and popular writers, as the authors of 
‘Busy Moments of An Idle Woman,” ‘‘Sylvia’s World,” 
‘Recollections of Washington,” ‘‘ Silverwood,” and 
others, whose zcognita I could not presume to in- 
vade: let me say here, I have omitted your names 
with a regretful sense of honor lost to myself and my 
cause. ‘‘Sylvia’s World,” especially, bears the stamp 
of a strong hand, and will yet, I trust, be given to the 
world with the name of the author. 

For the many courtesies extended—for the facilities 
afforded in the use of published and unpublished works 
—least of all for the warm, womanly hands and hearts 
which I have found in friendly letters—I have no 
thanks; but my good and loyal “subjects” will not 
mistake my silence. 

The portraits have been made expressly for this 
volume, and, with one exception, from life. — 


New York, August, 1860. 


CrOeNe BEEP ING Se 


eee oe 

OCTAVIA WALTON LEH VERT: PAGE 
BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. ...................- pci: vioid Batts sit sisi acetals sia nldiy wid eri eerreiate ees 13 
AN ADDRESS UPON LAYING THE CORNER STONE OF THE CLAY MONUMENT... 29 
ADDRESS TO THE OONTINENTALS OF MOBILE.................. cece ce cceeceeeeces 31 
AN EVENING WITH LAMARTINE. From the ‘‘ Souvenirs of Travel’’................ 32 
Pa WiLL O eVENICH eo erom the iSame).'.csctsicomis sce upets fan fie 4 eae uerie care aielelsite 83 
EEEMWAY: OVE DA SIMPLON, From the Same s. a. cs-icceecccccecleeeceeoee s 35 
PrUrioN, OF VESUVIUS, — From) the Same, .: .<2s0 wiic bclaeu. codes le sae Pada Meare 38 
SILVER AND GOLDEN ILLUMINATIONS.! From the Same. ..............22...--5--- 40 
BALL OF THE COUNTESS DESWALEW SKI Ser romathe |Samesi..c) i alesis elieecinert 4] 
DEE OMS HUM Ss eh romi the: Sane s..sfsclesycicws sfays aie! os saa sie cise oie oe die cers a eles ectoine seers 43 
THE HOME OF THE BROWNINGS, From the Same................scccccssccseceees 45 
ap EAN NGN SST GTIN D)sscpres ave avsteney ors sotir.6) yo chee (eis giw oo: aval Sie! a sua wierd ae 'o a oiele winve'ale erate mine orotate a aiesienetoe 46 

CAROLINE GILMAN: 
BLOG her Ala SIO LOE tear. sels) pits sls 0 dola'siancie ola eeias od cpals slsieiaisivicitols stale « aleletaeimeraietete 48 
TEL GOR BENEA Lire ok conte <a neon bee nme wlwh cia miabsvereig jee ate te lsieiere Biasveaa’s ale terete Br ere viy aw EDO 
MYCIENTDTENGeWORMGh avo. 2c juwpesemepe@neadan as clades caceene auees ajalelale oie ates sueleinaver 62 
THE? PICANITPATIO Nie see sales sicerine SS GOOG NADOCED S15 Soe ei SACRO A ere 63 
TOVTELE SUES UMN TOS seatere stevie etete cetchaeies te sions aulonstaiaeiainioia ie ataetMtstas| Arclersva or a aie sloidhelat amet? €5 
MY PEAZZA} . csitaa seein dation aes pecans ae Sica sale ates 08 PATTIE PAE acca dicia'a AU aie 66 


eae 3 


be 


CONTENTS. 


CAROLINE HOWARD: 


PAGE 
BIOGRAPHICAU SHB EC HS 22) tea se ct Sonic cies are, weysa eusceisie she's sine te mraiciate cise elite overs esis eueraie =, 68 
ADVENTURE IN THE CAVE. From “Vernon Grove”.. .......sseeeeeees veeeeeees 70 
SPRINGTIME ye From) the Same: 2ia.re cn: coco ctr abies eyoielecistesiateiere miele suomi na ieisieve tetas arelats 76 
TO A BELOVED VOICE. From the Same............... Steen cece cece eee e eee ceee eens 78 

ANNA CORA MOWATT RITCHIE: 
BIOGRAPHICAL) SK BT CHe 2 ce tine spine ccm saes briana etno erin emia ie mere iseeeateeaas 80 
MESMERIC SOMNAMBULISM. From “ Autobiography of an Actress”................ 95 
PANG. OLD) SVE AULD scar eca sic mtottene dla Abi eare ey sret ierar cia ctate tcc Spmrstere terete sti cy shel ava yayl ance award alt cIAtc Calera an arate 96 
EW OMLAINUS OE RILEIN DSELLD. sar rootless (eeeterassaletelicihs ee nate eatet eva raserisfaee ene, crave eee ale este fa oie ratte etal assests 99 
LADY TEAZLE’S INOPPORTUNE NAP. From “ Autobiography of an Actress”....... 102 
JULIUS DAG CHR. Prom ithe Games veh en ter ae cree cree or Ui dele Nese nieces Mesa 103 
POLARIS S TOMBS. Brom the Samec ie cert cae lata sicis craps onthe ciaye se ele creat nists pene saree 104 
THE REPRESENTATIVE BALCONY. From the Same...............-.-c.eeceeeees cee 105 
THE INKY POTION. From the Same................. ks eine otis E clbereiste Groce eros eto crite 105 
THE CAUTIOUS ACTOR. Brom the’ Same. 1. 0), -cac-s 2.42 eee eee eee ee SC MENS 
SUAPPINM SS) (eb ron S Armand fiers. 8. 0s fy cdnes coders cece ceeesen bee e cate eee 107 
ARMAND’S GRIEF. From the Same.................. ahs § a(ala ai trict e Gale he a tetaRa sel cen ETS 108 
AR DEAIND) S20 Vienne HromethenSanve: 2 vias. sic sielctneidele nie cere hie rere eine oeeicrem cients cee 109 
ARMAND? SUDRU DH ae Prom {ther Samaeiice wees sires aise cis sislereieturae tices eterna ate nee sia ae aes 109 
VIRTUE ITS OWN SHIELD, From the Same..................... sinvertel era sete cee eeee 110 
MR AND SMURS. TLE RAN Y: An HOME: =hrom *° Pashiony? src wae. ec elieemteiecea seer 111 
CATHARINE ANNE WARFIELD: 

BLOGRA PH LOA TY SK BLO Hea ip kc ainialser st teats Pen tes ca Se aS cee ten .< See Ro se rae 114 
THE HOUSEHOLD OF BOUVERIE. From “The Household of Bouverie”............ 118 
GHNEUS Wy eicOm Chen Oammegens acca eta aaiseper ren sitet ceperstete he. Sere eg oie Bip Ae ee eet 123 
RELIGION. From the Same............ cee ee es eee e eee e eet eee reece bene e ee cees 125 
THE SECRET CHAMBER AND ITS OCCUPANT. From the Same.................... 126 
ELIXIR OF GOLD AND BLOOD. From the Same. .... 2... .00. 22. cot meee cee eew tees 129 
LEGEND OF THE INDIAN CHAMBER. From ‘Book-of Poems”’.........2.........- 182 
POE ROME RELURN,, From the Same ytesob. cs cies cals ee videa ito e eevee cee mee meat 142 
I HAVE SEEN THIS PLACE BEFORE. F:om the auiie 4 siete ay are lah Sel seaeieteeal etme ee faere rac « 145 


CONTENTS. 


CATHARINE ANNE WARFIELD—Continvrep: 


eee em eee se eser ere eee er oese some sees ee Sete eee eeseeee20520 


seer ee ee wee ete eee eer sere srese rte SF Foo e oH TT FE OEE DHE OD 


HLHANOR PERCY LEE: 


TSS Ge aN O18 B OW Dyer oH 5) DM OB Le a ue alee a IN Ce UA ok Seeman DS) al AL A eae aye A eal 
THE DESERTED HOUSE. From ‘ Book of Poems” 


i eC ee ee ee ed 


THE LILY OF THE NILE. From the Same 


BeteeON CRS PINs PLOML ANG SAME (oo. hed oie cclssolc ta oera Re sass ee ee RR ea eens 


seer ee ee cee, Ooo moe re ee eo senor enssessees ores 


eer ee e+ Pe eH De eH TOR SHH > Dees 


MARIA J. MCINTOSH: 


BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. 


se tee eee wee oe cere esos sere soe t ommBeBMoeeseeses ee srs - ese S228 


WOMAN, HER OFFICES AND HER POWERS. From “ Woman in America” 


OUT OF THE MOUTHS OF BABES. From “Charms and Counter-Charms ” 


A SOUTHERN HOME. From a work in preparation 


wee e ree ee ree wr sane tee e8 ce eererrecene 


VIOLET; OR, THE CROSS AND THE CROWN 


a ee ee ee ee ee i ry 


LESION HHAR TA Brom unpublished’ Poemsiagncisc.lccis ois ee ssa cle wise oes cusisin sisters 
SERAVVENMON CO) Deere POD GN Cc SAM Gar.) seit cis cits «eis elec eefelate vale oblare ots: ol sisla's, vieieredhsyevever Mey <peiaist sterehs 
NGM NCOMLU Listen MOU) sb Oe SAM etcise aa Nerd dovatsie terete Sic eis Sra a aie alo ciduosiale slow suctalietntoickere sh aene tebe 


ASPLEVATION. 1 Hrom thes Same... ss... cedde. sas Jae UIE RO OHS Hine rae oma ol Glo dis on anlaie 


ALMIRA LINCOLN PHEHUPS: 
BEOGRAD EHEC AUP ShChyD CH. sere tek. Mesteseeactearme heer irh<  sictelais tors ver enede Monel oiefetst elie etary eateteveaster leks 
A NEW ENGLAND FAMILY. From ‘Hours With My Pupils”............ .......2.-. 
SOUTHERN HOUSEKEEPERS. From the Same...............- Psat es bieatel sale sree Netehete le 
TRUTH AND SINCERITY. From the Same..........-- bd ias Fash ences vets’ tishe Pea hae te ete se 


BEL RSeeeh rain tae Manic: foie tre che aoienie dies Perea aleh mte.s ware) pave drat eee tetas aes Seamer eas 


MARION HARLAND: 
BIOGRAPHIGA De SKHDCH s,s. aeiec citi pieis'+ oii nit viniaraianeiale sip oloiepstaiaetaterels v's avs afrinis atoutnss eit 
CAMP-MEETING SCENE. From “ Alone”........ sjelalal Ate sfalejersieasteis « ctsisio eh pele ore) si sieht cher wg 


MIGH?T-HAVE-BEEN. From “The Hidden Path”........... 0c... 000. bp ae ee 


150 


XU CONTENTS. 

MARION HARLAND—Continvep: 
NEMESIS. . From book in preparation......... bam caebne ste see ya steeteons Be SU a ape Sacks cree 
TOVNOME. Brom “cATON G2 tre ses oa rtie tole eo reco roeets RS TE eRe OOo oO SOE 
AT PEAOH, From ‘The Hidden Path”... ...2:.0..2::..4 BR tees OPPS ists, Bs Tae oe se eeee 


HMMA D. HK. N. SOUTHWORTH: 


PEROGRAPHIGALS SK BT OU s . oo. cee puck ohare thon es ano etal oS ote aCe Tne necro Eee 
LADY ETHERIDGE BECOMES A GOVERNESS. From ‘* Rose Elmer”’...............- 
THE HAUNTED HOMESTEAD...... Me Ss ap erg Rae Lae ete at oy Past RAPE ARN ALE Pale eis x OA 


ROSA VERTNER JOHNSON: 
BIOGRAPHIOALVSKETOH 207 sts Woe cae tote) core eee tas Pe ae Ey PP catia He a 
HASHEBSHSVASLONGUr teeta ne ee atom a ene Be SS ae Cio Hiba 
MY CHILDHOOD’S HOME. From Book of Poems......... ...-. 8 Bases ATC Ee 
ANG Hp WATCHERS, Bron thelsaime we ei worl ene esi evebma create cere aeieieeram ee hits 
ASDEGENDLORATHERLOPA Le Prom sther same merci setae cei hcciiae vest miiee eA A 
THE NIGHT HAS COME. From the Same.......... .2..seceeees Ob, oA nee 


THE -OOMHT OF S1LS858ae From, the Sanne cae. <aes . sca ctem eee erence scinimene Oe 


CAROLINE LHH HENTZ: 


BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH..... .......... Pisvavatetors etnioke anelsinse SoStS aolooo0don GoHo OST O Oe 


SOTHKY SAY. 8 hrom ““Hrnest Linwood. ..5.cse eee BRA RATE ER AR OAT LIae 


DE LARA’S BRIDE. From ‘De Lara, or The Moorish Bride” ......-...........--..-- 


PPE ASIN Wiss A IS HS 2 oo rst Sr As bee Cle pesec toh aa le ota Rien he Galata brace ome ete meta ONna ete ga 
AE MART LA TL CSON GS aiccaies hte ou ttak ace a iesduh clit pd lcyatela a: oieteanean tal aici Bara tetare'o elsiece csi decketate 


Crm ese we seme eer enecee sere eeeereser Craeraseress. aeeseeeerercsseeseseses 


ee ee ee ee a | 


AUNT PEGGY A LOGICIAN. From the Same............cseecee ist heys «ihe Sede Rae 


THE BAPTISM. From the Same 


oe ee i ee ary 


260 


265 


CONTENTS. SJil 


SUSAN ARCHER TALLEHY: 


PAGE 
BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH..... UR laiyinclac, Merl elaidret Maret rel ataa te ont carat clatote re elatetete Sacra eee 3809 
BNNERSLLES  From-Book of Poems: 23.24.22 s.jace wae ss ot AGE AS eth Bra Ni ch Dull 318 
SUMMER NOON DAY DREAM. From the Same.......... ...c0sceeeeeeeeess ares 322 
Peete BNartiront the Seine: sce tee we eee sae beac cdkey, ae Lum 395 
oS EO TAMILS cAI Cleo micyecuvercteycts er crersl ata: ofefelelc\el clonal smi eral ole: cheveia slcteisfoverey dict sre lohetelay ones scolsts! ste 3826 
AUGUSTA J. EVANS: 
TSTCONE SINTER OUT, SUI DUNGIS! ea ase doe Sa nome ombasuscde Bele dicta sualeve:etatere) snerece atereussitetal stetersie aust 828 
LILLY’S DEATH. From “ Beulah 215 baad ies is‘ ne AOE ome eh Bind elb a rg a ier ite Seon 333 
BEULAH BENTON AND GUY HARTWELL AS LOVERS. From the Same............ 3838 
Pieces ber INTOOTHE DARK.” From the: Same. . 2... 2 acs cnn. ale Solace 341 
CORNELIA, GRAHAM ES DEATHS ‘Krom the Same... 1. 1s scrscrae cis ste ceeeeese pace ieee 343 
MUD eAT oA STR RT UMPIPAN TT. Prom the: Same sn iiss alse ose cists eeenslee iia 349 
AVE Eon DLVIN EO MENISTR Ys, Bromthe Same.c\..2.0 cee aisles) cis cia cloereteleecianuyieer: 851 
JANH TR HH. CROSS: 
EMD Grete tte EDO Act mL TO EL aunt earner ccs (4 eee le Met cater tea: ¢ citia sre 2 oe) S olAls; 0 cores cele eigape an euenels 854 
SOA HEEGEIWANTUMS. 9) Prom ~ Wayside Plowerets) 702.020. 2. 2-2-2 6 avee ae see ears 306 
Premeeoeroe Ah: Prom.‘ D2ifh- WO0d). costes cclssiue +o sah own ss nse he saree elweene tee eine 358 
THN MAGIC RING. From the Same................ Dette teeter reste eee e ener ee ee eres 360 
THE MAN-ANGEL. From ‘ Heart-Blossoms....... ccs ssecceesevecceeseseseecees: 363 
SUNG Ate EL OMe NV avisiGewhlOwGrets: (vec s)syhe alee cous Na acts ats lace clei ctare close geeeanes nes 365 
AMEND TOD be ABIMG yrds Eke. oo we A eGrene ucla aedauee so ACoaeoUcorGaan Sor sco Na eS eae 366 
DONG Mae Eromacw he tronie: Oi Clee peers recreate are cabaieverslelacalans sl aie ale elenslsi stebetaneteel ceeters 867 
MARY S. B. DANA SHINDLER: 
BLOG WAP PEO ATT SKETCH 12 yo 4. . deciess dacs ose ee post ste cies Siar alu Saheb) oteln/el ove Siotatate eleuste ates pene 369 
THE MORNING STAR OF THE SPIRIT. From ‘The Southern Harp”’.............. 372 
THE FADED FLOWER AND THE CRUSHED HEART, From the Same........ He: oie 875 
THE BLESTABI RRNA HOMES Hrom the Same). ome ptr asec crn oe fect: 5 nears 873 
SHED. NOT -As THEA RaesP rom the Same ee: sere cers aoe eee ole.) ae eens 874 


LIKE A DREAM WHEN ONE AWAKETH. From the Same........... $e Siok eis era ekg 874 


X1V CONTENTS. 


ANN ELIZA DUPUY: 


PAGE 
BIOGAE ELL CAWiis KOHL OH cavern ie eoeleiepere eisvele ete evelale tate epeletelale Gano ocdicc sei eierg Sa redet ete fatepate ste 3876 
THE PANT BRZS «DA UGH DE Riz strc secslc hue sues 656 cal cholate ciate eis .eeete aiackstcle rarest os iePaeee rs Sia: 379 
PHECHUG OUNOT EX LLES) «i650 on ee Maleate ot ciew ania Wee wales Sale site metstaias aictpitiy Gente 881 

AMELIA B. WHLUBY: 

BOAT EI OA LA SK BP OR Fo. U5 oc6n steals wet al glee saa nie alee Shiae eon Werte eens cert 886 
NOTE O SBHN KITORASS AN dae cts ees eke Ris cererareisltene oie Suails tol s are sattque eM nwcnee . 888 
TO THE MEMORY OF A SISTER POET. From ‘Poems by Amelia”............... 2... 889 


THE GREEN MOSSY BANK WHERE THE BUTTERCUPS GREW. From the Same.... 890 





MUSINGS, 5 Front the Samet sseosie cise cetera Semmen ge ire aie tae ey eee crise saan eae a 391 
OUR HS Ye 7A KG rer rom the) Sanne emacs srs suerte nie eile eran os aie sacha ate 394 
THESE ED, BIRD Erom: the: Same. ce. ves enoe a terre cmiac ee eer enti tee eer ee 396 
WAELEONG S OL DSIDATRS so Br oma thier Semi Cay siege ratte case sree eee or reaver eeu eee ctor eta we ee 398 
LHe RES UNCH ORIG ODIs Frome the Sainenacye cece metre eaters meters ere eee 399 
THOUSCANS TD NOTANORG HiDeM bie rota then came saan ets aiee acumen as ere aie ERS 401 
ON ENTERING MAMMOTH CAVE, From the Same... -.2..< .css+. o@e se ee ee oe 402 
¥ 
KATHE A. DU BOSE: 
BIOGRAPHICAL SK ET OHie to. carseat otis sc austeinys clelaia eealsl aerosol eal iclereioe Se Eee ee meee 407 
RESP ASTOR SDA UGH THR ieee santo crete sic cae ie cab eicieeis Peele ee eee Ree ene 409 
WEA CG EEUIIGIAAS oo) caja rns, oy stsitats Wi Medeas Rrctersy erage enesesat nati’ s & fo RRGhey Wile Go ailacah SueeREA Stee ety ee NE 412 
eee SO UINTR AUN Di.@s BY SIN CLALES: 
BOG RIAP I LGA IGE SK BANG Hes as gua ae ei cs se rovers tare ain re cae etelc %o (ora apasere ere ciara RoE eer eae 416 
NOTICE OF THEIR POEMS. By John R. Thompson...:.. Se slafefc urs gets Wels Galiate eter a Sent 417 
WHAT THE MOON SHINES ON. From Miss Blount’s Poems...............-..2ssee--s- 419 
DREAMIN Gras Hromevissicinclain's Poems ya anit teeiie i teeter eeins ete eevee ciate eee ae 423 
LIAZIE PHTED: 
BIOGRAPEICA LP SKE TOM sai 22s 2.22 star aoe eter el aie lel eteeie ks aitelotlias sie°e tiers siere eh terete 425 
BENEDICK, THE MARRIED MAN. From “Light and Darkness”’................ ..... 430 
SALLIE ADA REEDY: 
BIOGRAPHICAL SRETOH safc S7i¥ae. sie beste had we fe etcane Scere en oat Ue Beet 485 


CONTENTS. XV 


L. VIRGINIA FRENCH: 


PAGE 
ME TORTI CRUTCHES ter en eto terre are ey eats 43 
WEOIEGEND OF THE INFERNAL PASS... 6.000.250 0lo0e 0h. ccdecate ce cccseucen vee AAA 
LEGEND OF THE LOST SOUL. ............-.. ch lg dada ae ts Ne Lah TO AS 448 
PROMEeTU MINER TCT C1 oc) os Ne Wr Re EN Eg St eC aks 452 
16 SS eri lp SR RRO SAN OU. ara URIS teal See Peres LLU 454 
eee ee OR THE: PINRG te UPA, hs tek ioe bald ae ace ey and eed a ABB 
RE ee Oe Nh eM NL i NE Lies CaM aN er eae & Ba NAD ABT 
MADAME LE VERT’S “SOUVENIRS OF TRAVEL” ...........00. ccceecccesecee acuce 459 
MARY EK. BRYAN: 
PEOPNC ATH CRETOUT Tie etc heh le Binlevenes ete ae 464 
Pee POCEUS ATR ee ee ec he a 468 
PAO WHEN Wi SHALL MEBT AGAIN’... \.....0000.0..000.... eae 470 
EMM cINGSELOWER fo oa 2 i eo occ esc te Aa oe oh ean 472 
ANNA PEYRE DINNIES: 
: Fees 7, Teresi SET coh 7 Be Sa cg PE at 416 
sf) 7 Ua A RSA a RSE ORS ME fe ATT 
MMe TENC URC Mehta ounm near Le er Eee eae 478 
EMME aS pre tests Ruy 8M Gi Oya aban ac SoA Mca aa tothe 478 
LOUISA S. MCCORD: 
BIOGRAPHICAL SRORTUE chase HE SelB) Seitaee NY os 2 Ueseienl wu dhe ae 480 
CORNELIA AND GRACOHUS, From a Tragedy.......csec+ssceeecesceeseecevessencees 492 
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XvV1 CONTENTS. 


GEORGIANA A. HULSE McLEOD—ContInveEpD: 





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—< 


WOMEN OF THE SOUTH. 


OCTAVIA WALTON LE VERT. 


Freprm«a Bremer calls the subject of this sketch her 
“sweet Rose of Florida.” She certainly is a “ Rose that all 
are praising.” It would require the scope of a full biography 
to change this rose into a bud,* and then, petal by petal, to 
unfold the bud again to the rose 5 after all, we might not find 
the dew-drop at its heart, nor be able to trace out its blended 
tints and exhalations. : 

Only recently has Madame Le Vert appeared before the 
world as an author. Long before she accepted the idea, often 
suggested to her, of writing a book, she was, perhaps, more 
widely known than any woman of America. Nature evidently 
planned her, on a large, comprehensive scale, a social genius, 
and all her good gifts are cut and polished to this end. 

Thoroughly cosmopolitan in spirit, she acquires with great 
facility the languages and idioms which make her at home 
with different nations. We have seen her the centre of a 


group made up of representatives from France, Spain, Italy, 


* “As if a rose should shut, and be a bud again.”—KXeats. 
13 


14 WOMEN OF THE SOUTH. 


Germany, and her own country, apparently not only in bril- 
liant rapport with each, through the medium of his own 
vernacular, but putting the whole circle in sympathy—stringing 
all upon the thread of her own magnetism. With this rare 
faculty, she has twice flitted through the countries of the Old 
World, leaving her name playing like a sunbeam on every 
city and village, and in the hearts, alike, of the titled and 
the lowly. She was made up without antipathies, and, in 
place of them, has large adaptation and tolerance, which, 
together with her womanly graces, eminently fit her for the 
office of social harmonizer. There are few spheres so malig- 
nant as to repel her utterly, and, if repelled, her sunny soul 
does not seem to receive any positive shock. She is more 
electric than eclectic, and something better than either—she 
was never known to speak or act an unkindness. | 

It is interesting to note the different impressions which 
Madame Le Vert conveys to different minds; to see how hard 
it is for us to accept anything but a glaring extraneous cause 
for a fine effect. We had read many of the newspaper sketches 
of her, and listened to countless relations of her varied accom- 
plishments, but had failed to recognize her specific charm, 
until a little child, who had been sitting, one day, in her 
presence, thinking a child’s “long, long thoughts,” came to 
whisper softly in our ear: “She isn’t a fine lady at all: she 
is just like me, and I love her!” The darling! Through 
all the éclat and circumstance of the famous, flush woman, this 
six-summered soul had discovered and paid tribute to its sweet 
counterpart. | 

We can, perhaps, have no better proof of the extended fame 
and popularity of Madame Le Vert, than the fact that, for many 
years, she has been the capital in trade of our rhymesters and 
penny-a-liners, and, like George Washington in the compositions 
of the school-children, subject to every variety of well-inten- 


OCTAVIA WALTON LE VERT. 15 


tioned caricature. High critical authorities, even, emerging 
from the spell of her personal presence, have grown florid and 
rhapsodical, until we have sometimes thought that the spirit of 
this charming little woman must ache in every part, with its 
weight of “glittering generalities.” For her sake, we shall 
make this sketch, as far as possible, a thing of features and facts. 

George Walton, the grandfather of Madame Le Vert, and 
one of the signers of the Declaration of Independence, was a 
native of Prince Edward County, Va., but removed in early 
life to Georgia, where his fine gifts and chivalric character soon 
placed him in a distinguished position. He received his first 
wound in the service of his country, while leading on his 
regiment at the siege of Savannah ; was a member of the first 
Congress, convened at Philadelphia, and afterward held succes- 
sively the honorable offices of Governor of Georgia and Judge 
of the Supreme Court. 

Not long before the Revolution, he married Miss Camber, 
the daughter of an English nobleman, to whom the crown had 
given large possessions in the colony of Georgia. When the 
American sky grew dark with the coming storm, her father 
insisted upon her return to England; but she refused to leave 
her rebel husband, and followed him with true womanly hero- 
ism through the perilous days which succeeded. Soon after the 
siege of Savannah, she was taken prisoner by the British and 
sent to one of the West India islands, where she remained until 
an exchange was effected. It was the great delight of our 
author, when a little child, to listen to her grandmother’s thrill- 
ing narrations of scenes as they then transpired. eared as an 
English heiress, young, gifted and beautiful, her devotion to her 
adopted country should give her name an honorable place 
among the heroines of the Revolution. 

Madame Le Vert has now in her possession many letters 
addressed to Colonel Walton by General Washington, Lafayette, 


16 WOMEN OF THE SOUTH. 


the elder Adams, Jefferson, and other noted men of those 
days, in which his descendants are proud to trace assurances of 
their high confidence and regard. In 1808,he died at his 
country seat, near Augusta, Georgia, leaving two children, one 
of whom, the father of our author, still lives, and bears his 
honored name. 

George Walton, the second, was educated at Princeton, New 
Jersey, and married Miss Sally Minge Walker, the daughter of 
an eminent lawyer of Georgia. To her brilliant gifts and 
accomplishments the world is, no doubt, indebted for many of 
the characteristics of her distinguished daughter. 

In 1812, Colonel Walton became a member of the Legisla- 
ture of Georgia, and held the position for many years with 
honor. In 1821, he was appointed Secretary of State under 
General Jackson, then Governor of Florida, and when the old 
chief retired to the “ Hermitage,” succeeded him in office. In 
1830, he was elected to the Legislature of Florida, and, in 18385, 
removed to Mobile, Alabama, where he held for two years the 
office of Mayor. Since then he has travelled much in this’ 
country and Europe, and filled various important positions. 
He is now, at sixty-nine years of age, in vigorous health, and 
one of the raciest conversationists of the day. 

Octavia Walton was born at Belle Vue, near Augusta, Ga., 
but her parents removing soon after to Florida, her first memo- 
ries are of the sunshine and flowers of Pensacola: in her own 
vivid words, “of the orange and live-oak trees, shading the 
broad veranda; of the fragrant acacia, oleander, and Cape 
jasmin trees, which filled the parterre sloping down to the 
sea-beach ; of merry races with my brother along the white 
sands, while the creamy waves broke over my feet, and the 
delicious breeze from the gulf played in my hair; of the pet 
mocking-birds in the giant oak by my window, whose songs 
called me each morning from dreamland.” 


OCTAVIA WALTON LE VERT. Ly 


Pensacola, situated on a noble bay, was the rendezvous of 
the United States vessels of the Gulf station. It was a gala 
time when they returned from their cruises; balls and parties 
at the governor’s house—splendid entertainments on board the 
ships—moonlight excursions upon the bay, and pic-nics in the - 
magnolia groves.. The well-educated and chivalric officers 
were a large element in the society to which our author was 
thus early accustomed; and while yet a mere child, she had 


little to learn in the way of drawing-room ease and ele- 
gance. 

Amid such scenes, her receptive nature seems to have 
absorbed that tropical exuberance of thought, feeling, language, 
and presence, which has made her name famous; while at the 
same time, an early and close relation with nature, in one of her 
most tender and bounteous aspects, preserved intact, amid all 
precocious tendencies, the naive simplicity of the child, which 
is to this day her crowning grace. | 

Before the age of twelve years, she could write and converse 
in three languages with facility. So unusual was her talent as 
a linguist, that it was the custom of her father to take her to 
his office to translate from the French or Spanish the most 
important letters connected with affairs of state. There, perched 
upon a high stool—she was too tiny in stature to be made 


e . # 
available otherwise 





she would interpret, with the greatest ease 
and correctness, the tenor and spirit of foreign dispatches, 
proving herself, thus early, quite worthy of her illustrious 
descent. 

During her father’s administration, as Governor of Florida, 
he located the seat of government, and, at the earnest request 
of his little daughter, Octavia, called it by the Indian name of 
“Tallahassee.” Its signification (“‘ beautiful land”) fell musi- 
cally upon the ear of the imaginative child; she was greatly 
interested, too, in the old Seminole king, Neamathla, who, in 

9 7 


AS ° WOMEN OF THE SOUTH. 


‘the days of his power, struck his tent-pole in that ground, 
made it his resting-place, and called it first by this sweet name. 
It was the custom of the Indians to go every year to Pensa- 


cola to receive presents from the governor. Neamathla grew | 


very fond of the young Octavia, and when the temptations of 
civilized life induced any of his retinue to depart from his 
commands, they would always seek the intercession of the 
governor’s daughter, who was known among them as the 
“White Dove of Peace.” : 

Among many interesting incidents of her early life, Madame 
Le Vert remembers an interview with Lafayette, on the occa- 
sion of his last visit to the South. He had written to her grand- 
mother, begging her, if possible, to meet him at Mobile, but 
the infirmities of age beginning at this time to weigh some- 
what heavily upon her, she determined to send a worthy repre- 
sentative in the person of the graceful and versatile Octavia. 

After the arrival and grand reception of Lafayette at 
Mobile, Octavia and her mother were quietly presented by the 
committee of arrangements, and the little fair-haired envoy 
then placed in his hands the miniature of her grandfather, to 
which she bore striking resemblance. For some minutes he 
gazed upon both pictures in silence; then, bursting into tears, 
caught the child to his heart, exclaiming: “The living image 
of my brave and noble friend!” A long and interesting inter- 
view ensued, the young Octavia, seated upon the knee of the 
old hero, holding him spell-bound with her piquant and fluent 
use of his native tongue. He then folded her again to his heart 
and blessed her fervently, remarking to one of the committee, as 
she left the room: “A truly wonderful child! She has been 
conversing all this while with intelligence and tact in the purest 
French. I predict for her a brilliant career.” Oracular words, 
which the records of years have more than confirmed. 

But Octavia Walton did not sit passively down to await the 


\ 


OCTAVIA WALTON LE’ VERT. AG 


fulfillment of Lafayette’s prophecy. One great secret of her 
success lies in her indefatigable industry. Only by close 
application has she taken the true gauge of herself—brought 
into view every resource—into play every faculty; only thus 
has she become conversant with classical and scientific studies, 
made herself mistress of many languages, a proficient in music, 
an eloquent conversationist, and a ready writer; and, by a no 
less fine and careful culture, has she been able, in every phase of 
her life, to evolve only light and warmth from her large human 
heart; to bring to the surface the best qualities of all who 
came within her influence; to charm away detraction, and to 
preserve, apart from her world-woman aspect, a child-nature, 
as pure and undimmed as a pearl in the sea. 

Octavia was never placed within the walls of a schoolroom. 
Her mother and grandmother, both women of intellect and cul- 
tivation, vied with each other in developing her earlier mental 
life, and private tutors were provided to meet the needs of her 
advance. She and her brother pursued their studies for years 
under the eye of an old Scotchman, a fine classic scholar and 
linguist, who had lived in the family since their birth, as devoted 
an adherent as was ever Dominie Sampson to the House of 
Bertram. 

Soon after their removal to Mobile, Octavia, in company 
with her mother and brother, made the tour of the United States ; 
and then commenced the remarkable career as a social genius, 
which gave to the name of Octavia Walton its world-wide cele- 
brity. Possessing the entrée of the most select circles in each 
city of the Union, she suddenly awoke to the fact that she held 
also a magic key to human hearts, and could sway at will the 
moods and emotions of those who surrounded her—a knowledge 
and position alike dangerous. She was crowned “reigning 
belle” by acclamation: a title, which, worn as it so often is by 
the weak and frivolous, or the vain and heartless, has ever done 


20 WOMEN OF THE SOUTH. 


injustice to the high-toned and comprehensive character of our - 
author. That she was more than a mere belle is proved by the 
fact that her name was never spoken lightly, and of all who then 
offered her the highest tribute in the gift of man, she has never 
lost a friend. 

These were the good old days of stage-coaches, when travel- 
lers, thrown together by the accident of sympathy in the 
“destined end or way,’ had ample time to cultivate affinities or 
antipathies; and it so happened that our party became greatly 
interested in a strange gentleman, who took his seat among 
them each morning, as naturally as if included in the first 
arrangement. There was a pleasing mystery about him. He 
was in the meridian of life, of a most gracious presence: had evi- 
dently been the round world over: was possessed of a fund of 
humor and anecdote, and conversed with clearness and elegance, 
like one accustomed to write out impressions; he was certainly 
a distinguished somebody—and who? 

There was too much good breeding on both sides to evince 
curiosity. The unknown continued to grow into favor, espe- 
cially with the young Octavia, whose vivacious intelligence 
seemed very much to delight him. One day, as she was con- 
versing with her brother in Spanish, the stranger, with a quiet 
grace, joined in the conversation; he had spent some years in 
Spain, and was at home in the language. While describing in 
his graphic way a bull-fight which he had witnessed, he dwelt 
particularly upon a singular incident that occurred in connec- 
tion. Peculiar as the incident was to that one occasion, Octavia 
is certain she has heard it in some way before. 

‘It cannot be,” said the narrator, “ for I am sure there is’ 
no record of it, and you have never been in Spain.” 

But Octavia was never known to forget. With a moment’s 
thought her whole face brightened. . 

“You are Washington Irving.” 


 OCTAVIA WALTON LE VERT. 9] 


“And pray why am I Washington Irving?” 

Lore Ns Oe tole 
me of this identical incident, and added that Washington Irving 
stood by his side when he witnessed it.” 





“‘ Because now I remember that Mr. § 


So here was revealed the genial writer of the “Sketch 
Book,” no stranger after all, but an old and dear friend, whose 
name was a household word. The stage-coach party became at 
once a fireside circle, unrestrained, harmonious, warmed and 
lighted b¥ the glow of a common sympathy. Impressed more 
and more with the quick retentive quality of Octavia’s mind, 
her large observation and racy expression, Mr. Irving advised 
her to commence a journal, dating from this, her first experience 
as a traveller; adding that she would be sure some day to find 
it an invaluable resource. From that time to the present her 
life has been journalized ; a mine indeed of rich material for the 
autobiography which it is hoped she will yet give to the world. 
Thus began a friendship which was only interrupted by the 
death of Mr. Irving. He became her faithful correspondent, 
and watched her career from that period with true fatherly 
interest. During her last visit to New York, he sought her 
more than once in the crowded saloons of the St. Nicholas, and 
’ twice claimed her as his guest. Their last interview at “ Sunny 
Side” was filled with reminiscent chat, in which the stage- 
coach party was vividly pictured, and the genial host dwelt 
in his happiest vein upon all the incidents of thejourney. At 
parting, he said softly: “I feel as if the sunshine was all going 
away with you, my child.” It was their last meeting on earth, 
and this beautiful tribute has now a sacred value. 

During the administration of Jackson, in those memorable 
times, when, with a daring hand, he removed the deposits, 
Octavia Walton was each day an earnest listener to the debates 
in Congress, and transferred at once to the pages of her diary 
the speeches of Calhoun, Clay, and Webster. These three were 


29, WOMEN OF THE SOUTH. 


her warm personal friends, especially Mr. Clay, to whose 
memory she has since offered a glowing and affectionate testi- 
monial. | 

In 1836, she married Dr. Henry Le Vert, of Mobile, a man 
equally noted for his professional skill and high moral worth. 
His father, Dr. Claude Le Vert, who was a native of France, 
came to America with Lafayette, as fleet surgeon under 
Rochambeau, and was present at the taking of Yorktown. In 
the palace of Versailles there is a large painting representing 
the reception of Rochambeau and his officers by Washington ; 
conspicuous, on the left, may be seen the fine head and com- 
manding person of Dr. Claude Le Vert. After peace was pro- 
claimed, he left the French navy and settled in Virginia, where 
he married Miss Metcalf, the niece of Admiral Vernon, in 
honor of whom Lawrence Washington, who had served under 
him in South America, named his country seat “ Mount Ver- 
non.” After his death’ his widow removed with her two child- 
ren to Alabama. The youngest son, Henry Le Vert, then 
adopted the profession of his father, graduated at Philadelphia, 
and established himself in Mobile, where he has since resided, a 
leading physician of the State. Many a noble act of his, per- 
formed secretly in the lowliest walks of his profession, has been 
recorded, and will yet appear. In these generous ministrations 
he has ever found a willing coadjutor in Madame Le Vert. 
The “ Belle of the Union” could preside with equal grace and 
effectiveness in the crowded drawing-rooms of fashion, and by 
the bedside of the suffering poor. Most of all was she happy in 
her home and children. But clouds were gathering. | 

Her first sorrow came in 1849, with the death of her only 
brother, a man of rare personal and intellectual graces, to 
whom her very soul was knitted. Six weeks after, two sweet 
children were taken. Prostrated in body and spirit by these 
bereavements, she secluded herself for three years from society. 


OCTAVIA WALTON LE VERT. 93 


Most opportune and beneficent, then, was a visit from the 
Lady Emeline Stuart Wortley, among whose writings may be 
found a glowing tribute to our author, and to the memory of 
the departed. 

In the summer of 1853, yielding to the solicitations of 
friends, she accepted an invitation from the Duke of Rutland, 
and in company with her father and daughter, sailed for Eng- 
Jand. It is not necessary to follow her there. All are familiar 
with thedetails of her reception in London and tour through 
Europe. As one has said,* “ There probably was never a more 
signal success in the way of access to foreign society, friendly 
attentions from the nobility and notice from royalty, than fell to 
the share of Madame Le Vert.” She undoubtedly owed to the 
Lady Emeline Wortley the empressement of her first reception, 
but to her own magnetic personality is due the rest. It is our 
pride that prestege of presence, and not of title, was her key to 
the most imposing court of Europe; while we dwell with some- 
thing better than pride upon traces of her influence, glowing 
not in printed columns, but written ever in the grateful hearts of 
a foreign peasantry. | 

In 1854, she returned to America; but after spending one 
year in the quiet of her own home was persuaded to revisit 
Europe in company with her husband and daughter. Out of 
these tours grew the “Souvenirs of Travel,” to which we are 
indebted for such impressions of European life as could have 
come to us through no other medium. Made up of familiar 
letters to her mother, the book has all the freshness and vivacity 
of the author’s own effluent presence. It is like nothing we 
ever read, unless we except a description (which at contains) of 
the play of the “ Fountains at Versailles.” Over and ‘around 
all, like an atmosphere, floats the couleur de rose, which belongs 


*N. P. Willis. 


74 -WOMEN OF THE SOUTH. 


not to the belle of many seasons, not to the cool and cautious 
world-woman, but to the simple-hearted and impressionable 
child. We feel as if some good fairy had spirited us away over 
the sea, and was leading us by the hand through fairyland. 
All irregularities, clouds, and waste places—all sad and fearful 
things, are softened and tinted till they become simply pictur- 
esque; while all culture and beauty, all graces and courtesies, 
are so glorified in amber and rose, we say, “Surely the face of 
the old world is more bonnie than the face of the new!” But 
we have been looking through the eyes of our fairy—a medium 
which accepts no shadows. In this book Madame Le Vert has 
sent forth a true type of herself; the upturned disc of her soul 
“meets always the broad disc of the sun. 

To us there is something very beautiful in the enthusiasm 
which has outlived adulation and every other corrosive influ- 
ence, and can walk abroad each day under its own rainbows. 
Pens dipped in a fountain of perennial youth are the exception 
among us; while there is no lack of homilies, croakings, curt- 
ness, causticity, and phleghm. It is refreshing to come upon a 
writer who knows not, and so fears not, the hard, cynical side 
of life. | 

Our author does not use the skill which she really possesses in 
delineating character. It does not consist with her abounding 
charity to be nicely critical; she gleans from the surface what- 
ever seems fair,.and leaves the rest for those who have a taste 
for uncomfortable discoveries; so her portraits sometimes lack 
the strong lines and salient points of the analyst. But there 
are channels, aside from the deep and winding one of human 
nature, where her descriptive power courses with strength and 
impressiveness. “The way over the Simplon,” “The Ascent 
and Eruption of Vesuvius,” ‘“ Moonlight in Venice,” and “The 
Golden and Silver Iluminations,” and other ceremonies of holy 
week, are a few among many scenes described in a graphic and 


ge 


OCTANITA® WALTON LE VERT. 95 


felicitous manner. ‘“ We should as soon think,” says, most hap- 
pily, a woman of fine genius and critical acumen,* “of sitting 
down to dissect the bird whose song had charmed us, as to 
break upon the wheel of criticism a book springing so much 
from the heart-side of the author.” Says another—a southern 
poet—whose sketch forms a part of this volume, and whose 
noble discriminating review of the “ Souvenirs” circulated 
widely in this country and Europe: “She writes as the flower 
blooms, because it is bathed in dew, ‘fanned by the breeze, and 
kindied up by the sunshine, till it bursts its inclosing petals, 
and lavishes its fragrance and sweet life upon the air. She 
receives, as it were by intuition, the idea of the ancient Greeks, 
that the whole universe is a ‘ Kosmos’ of beauty and order, and 
this she presents to the reader not as a pleasant theory, but a 
sublime truth. And yet at times, as if to prove how truly she . 
is woman, a faint shadow lies upon her heart, and is reflected 
upon the page—telling that she has entered the temple of 
memory, and, passing by little graves at the thereshold still 
guarded by love and sorrow, her spirit treads silently the hal- 
lowed chamber of tears.” 

In entering the field of authorship, Madame Le Vert would 
seem, at last, to have tested the ore of every vein of her versatile 
genius. To watch the play of manifold graces—to listen to 
the something new always unfolding from a well-stored mind, is 
a pleasure which the crowd appreciates, and this fair daughter 
of the land was in danger of frittering herself away. Now she 
has written a book; and to do this requires the solitude which 
brings one face to face with one’s self—the introversion which 
deepens—the reserve which fortifies; while a book that con- 
tains, in any sort, the soul and sinew of the writer, is something 
plucked from the hurrying tide; something to be taken ten- 


* The author of ‘‘ The Sinless Child.” 


26 WOMEN OF THE SOUTH. 


derly down from its nook in the old library, through many 
generations. In this light especially these “Souvenirs” are 
invaluable. . 

Lamartine, it is said, first suggested the book, and gave it a 
name. It happened in this wise. Madame Le Vert had been 
describing to him, in her own way, a recent sojourn in Spain ; 
as she paused, he said earnestly, his poet-eye beaming with the 
conviction: ‘“ Madame, you have one gift of which you yourself 
are unaware. You area natural emprovisatrice. Now, because 
you are not an Italian, you cannot be an emprovisatrice, but 
you can be a writer; you can fill with pleasure the hearts of 
your nation by describing what you have seen to them as you 
are now delighting me. When the excitements of your tour 
are over, and you are once more quietly at home, will you not 
remember, madame, what I have said, and employ your leisure 
in giving to the world a few souvenirs of your European life ?” 

That she did remember, literally and religiously, is proved 
by the book and its title. 

At one period of our author’s life, during an illness which: 
confined her to the house without prostrating her energies, she 
translated in the most faithful and spirited manner, Dumas’ 
‘Musketeers ;” and a few months since, there appeared in the 
columns of the “ Mobile Register” a translation by her of the 
pamphlet, “The Pope and the Congress.” ‘This is pronounced 
by French scholars the most admirable rendering which has 
yet appeared. Entirely at home in the French, Spanish, and 
Italian languages, she cannot fail to do justice to them in 
translation. 

Among all her occupations, no one has labored more zeal- 
ously than herself in the cause of securing Mount Vernon. 
She was one of the first to advocate the project, and as Vice- 
Regent of the Association for Alabama, has not only succeeded 
in raising by personal efforts an unexpected amount, but has 


OCTAVIA WALTON LE VERT. Q7 


herself contributed substantially to the common fund. It is a 
fitting tribute from the grandchild of George Walton to the 
manes of George Washington. 

Among many sketches of “ Madame Le Vert at home,” we 
make brief extracts from one or two, which we select for their 
distinct features and comparative freedom from extravagance. 
A popular writer,* whose essays upon art and humanity evince 
much discrimination, and who says he” 


“Would not flatter Neptune for his trident, 
Nor Jove for his power to thunder,” 


thus writes of our author: 

“Her residence is on Government street, in the most con- 
venient and central part of Mobile. It is a plain, substantial 
mansion, combining taste, elegance, and comfort. She has an 
immense library, and rare works of art. A genuine republi- 
can in her feelings, she respects and cherishes all genius and 
merit, however humble its condition or origin. Whoever has 
talent and moral worth has a claim upon her. She is kind and 
hospitable simply for the pleasure of doing good, because it is 
her nature to be so. No human being has ever been pained 
by an unkind or ungenerous act of hers. In conversation she 
never flags, yet never utters a commonplace.” 

Fredrika Bremer says of her: 

“Jt is so strange that that little worldly lady, whom I had 
heard spoken of as a belle, and as the most splendid ornament 
of society wherever she went, has yet become almost as dear to 
me as a young sister! But she has become so from being so 
very excellent, because she has suffered much, and_ because 
under a worldly exterior there is an unusually sound and pure 


* Adam Badeau. 


28 WOMEN OF THE SOUTH. 


intellect, and a heart full of affection, which can cast aside all 
the vanities of the world for the power of gratifying those 
whom she loves. This fair daughter of Florida is surrounded 
by a circle of relatives who seem to regard her as the apple of 
their eye; and if you would see the zdeal of the relationship 
between a lady and her female slave, you should see Octavia 
Le Vert and her clever, handsome, mulatto attendant, Betsey. 
Betsey seems really not “to live for anything else than for her 
mistress, Octavia.” 

A good Catholic editor flows out in the following tribute to 
her conversational powers : 

“JT defy anybody to spend an hour in her company without 
rising up a wisér and better man, having a sense of musical 
joyance in his heart, because of her words, which 3 


“ «Did all burst forth in choral minstrelsy, 


As if some sudden gale had swept at once 
979 


A hundred airy harps. 


In enumerating the ruling characteristics of Madame Le 
Vert, we must not forget one which stands out perhaps more 
prominently than any other—her devotion to her mother. We 
do not remember ever to have seen the filial relation more fully 
realized. The mother is worthy of the daughter; a thorough 
gentlewoman of large heart, and brilliant, versatile gifts; 
indeed, we have heard it said that when the two have appeared 
together in society, the former has sometimes been obliged to 
“look to her laurels.” It is frequently the case, that. mother, 
daughter and grand-daughter attend the same party, dance in 
the same quadrille, and attract their own separate corner- 
coteries. 

Prevented, by a painful accident, from prosecuting the work, 
“Souvenirs of Distinguished People,” long since announced by 
her publishers—Madame Le Vert has spent the last year 


x 


OCTAVIA WALTON LE VERT. 29 


quietly at home in a state of patient receptivity. As soon as 
she is sufficiently recovered to endure the fatigue of travelling. 
her faithful physician, Dr. Le Vert—prescribes a tour to the 
Holy Land. This most interesting journey accomplished, we 
shall look confidently, not only for another book of travels, but 
for the postponed work, whose material is all ready to her 
hand in the affluent pages of her diary. | 


AN ADDRESS 
UPON LAYING THE CORNER STONE OF THE MONUMENT TO HENRY CLAY, 


(Written at the request of the Clay Monumental Association.) 


While the patriotic sons of our country are uniting in ‘a testimonial to the 
memory of Henry Clay, shall not woman be allowed to place the flowers of 
gratitude and aifection upon the altar of his fame? 

To none were the genius and services of the illustrious statesman and 
orator more dear than to his countrywomen: with all those lofty and com- 
manding qualities which sway senates, and guide the course of empires, he 
had a heroism of heart, a chivalry of deportment, a deference of demeanor, 
which while forming the soul and secret of his impassioned eloquence, were 
irresistible talismans over the minds of the gentler sex. 

Great as he was in the ‘‘forum of nations,” or before multitudes of men, 
controlling them by his ‘‘ gleaming finger,” as with the wand of an enchanter, 
it was in the home circle, by the domestic fireside, that his character was 
seen in its true grace and loveliness; there his voice, that lately rang like a 
trumpet amid his assembled peers, and whose undying echoes (the richest 
symphonies of patriotism) are still reverberating from the white hills of New 
England to the parapets of the Pacific, was attuned to all the softest cadences 
of social and intellectual intercourse. How delightful it was then to listen 
to the playful repartee, the genial anecdotes, the sparkling bonmots, the vivid 
reminiscences of European and American society, and the always elevated 
sentiments of one who had mingled in the most prominent scenes of his time 
in both hemispheres, without losing in the least the lofty manliness, sincerity, 
and purity of his nature. 

Rousseau once said “there are no compliments like a king’s;” but how 
much more fascinating and even royal than all the persiflage of a Bourbon or 
a Hapsburg were the graceful praises and felicitous commendations of such a 


30 WOMEN OF THE SOUTH. 


man as Mr. Clay, an unquestioned king of mind by the true right divine, 
when, with eyes beaming like gems, his high white brow, 


“That dome of thought, that palace of the soul,” 


radiant with benignity, and encircled by his silvery locks as by a crown, his 

aged lips wreathed by the gentlest of smiles, he stood before you in tall, 
stately majesty. At such times he seemed to blend the graces of Sheridan 
with the dignity of Washington. Thousands and thousands of his country- 
women will long thus recall him to mind. 

But not alone in this, his more private character, does woman appreciate 
the excellence of Mr. Clay. His public life, in many of its aspects, had all 
the romance of chivalry. He stood among the orators and statesmen of his 
time as Philip Sidney amid his contemporary knights and barons. History 
has already placed ] his statue in the pantheon of immortality ! 

Our country’s records, hs om the purchase of Louisiana (this lovely land 
of the sugar-cane and magnolia) to the great pacification of 1850, are vitalized 
by his glowing words. The mighty Mississippi, upon whose margin we now 
‘stand, bears in all its waters a full remembrance of his early efforts to give 
freedom to its commerce and to braid its million streams into a mighty band 
of union and prosperity for our glorious country. 

The fame of Henry Clay can never die. As our most gifted southern 
poet has said: 


“Long mid our gallant great and good 
Like Washington he nobly stood ; 
While trembling on his burning tongue, 
Truth, justice, peace, and freedom hung. 


“Thrice when our storm-tossed ship of State 
Seemed sinking with its priceless freight, 
His guardian spirit, firm and free, 
Walked o’er our troubled Galilee. 


“Through all the world his glorious name 
“Is whispered by the lips of fame; 
For long in every kindling zone, 


His voice was freedom’s bugle tone! 


“The Greek girl kneeling by her seas, 
Deemed him a new Demosthenes ; 
And young Bolivar’s patriot ray 
Was light-like caught from Henry Clay.” 


OCTAVIA WALTON LE VERT. SI 


How appropriate then is it that a memorial of this model statesman, 
patriot and orator, should be erected here in the crescent bend of the Mis- 
Sissippi. | . 

Not far off rises the sculptured image of his great rival compatriot: the 
one was the sword and shield, the other the mind and the tongue of the 

country. Side by side they stand in the temple of fame. 
7 Glorious in their lives, let the noblest of the fine arts here place their 
sculptured forms together, that future generations may gaze in love, gratitude 
and veneration upon them, and be nobly stimulated in the paths of patriotism, 
while they feel the refining influence which the beautiful in art always exerts 
upon its votaries. 

The statue of Themistocles long greeted from a promontory in Greece the 
home-returning voyager, and fired afresh his love for Attica and Athens. So 
may the statue of our patriotic orator ever inspire with emulating fervor the 
citizens of this land of liberty, and especially of this prosperous city of New 
Orleans. 


April 12, 1856. 


ADDRESS TO THE CONTINENTALS OF MOBILE. 


OFFICERS AND SOLDIERS OF THE CONTINENTALS OF MOBILE: 


A most pleasing duty has been confided to me. A number of the patriotic 
ladies of our city have prepared with their own hands this beautiful banner, 
and requested me to present it to you. Such aservice, though embarrassing, 
would, under any circumstances, be most grateful, as conveying a fitting 
tribute from loveliness to chivalry, but especially is it so upon this occasion. 
Your glittering and picturesque costume—that historic uniform—bespeaks 
the character of your organization. 

How the heart thrills and the eyes brighten at the spectacle! What glo- 
rious memories of ancestral deeds, of brave devotion, heroic sacrifices, trials, 
and triumphs sweep over the mind as we look upon that beloved garb which 
once, worn by Washington and Greene, by Sumpter and McIntosh, pressed 
on through all the smoke and blood, the famine and battles of the Revolution, | 
to the fair land of promise-—the rich inheritance of Republican Freedom we 
enjoy to-day. 

And this day, too, on which you have arrayed yourselves in that sacred 
dress, is the anniversary of the first blow for independence, the ever memor- 
able battle of Lexington! Well have you, at such atime, with earnest grati- 


39 WOMEN OF THE SOUTH. 


tude and a noble determination to keep alive the lofty sentiments and 
generous courage of our fathers, adopted their Continental uniform as the 
badge and habiliments of your soldiery ranks. 

My own heart bounds with joy and glowing sympathy as I look upon you; 
for he, my honored grandfather, whose name I proudly still retain, and whose 
services and character are my richest legacy, wore that dress when he placed 
his hand on the great chart of American Independence. 

Hail, then, patriot soldiers! Hail, gallant Continentals of Mobile! To 
your keeping I shall, as the medium of the fair and lovely donors, confide 
this beauty-woven standard. It is the banner of our country! More glorious 
far than the imperial cross of Constantine! Bear it in peace, as the ensign 
of patriotism, the type and bond of our nationality. And should war—a 
foreign war—ever crimson those garments with American blood, or shroud 
these stars in the smoke of bursting artillery, while you remember that the 
recollections of the past, the hopes and affections of the present, are all clus- 
tering around your ranks, still bear bravely this flag, as its counterpart was 
borne at Lexington and Trenton, at Eutaw and Yorktown, ever in the front of 
the fight, the beacon-light of valor, victory, and deathless renown. 

Contineatals of Mobile, with pride and confidence, I place this banner in 
your hands. 


April 20th, 1857. 


AN EVENING WITH LAMARTINE, 


Then came an invitation to spend a social evening with him and his lady. 
There were only a few literary friends present in addition, and J passed some 
of the most enchanting hours I have known for many years with the historian, 
his lady, and their friends. Lamartine looks very much like Portz, but is 
entirely free from any French manners. He is tall and thin; has white hair, 
and an expression of face indicative of constant and intense reflection. There 
is a dreamy, poetical look about the eyes; and he speaks slowly and with 
marked emphasis. His manner is self-possessed, but full of warm cordiality ; 
and his words are genial and kind. He is charming in conversation—earnest 
and eloquent: with so much feeling in his language as impresses one con- 
stantly with his sincerity. .He received me with the utmost warmth and 
kindness, and seated me by his side, so that I had all of his attentions to 
“myself. The thread of conversation was unravelled by the usual topics, until 
it owed freely from the ball; and then it soon wove itself into a thousand 


OCTAVIA WALTON LE VERT. 33 


pleasant themes. But to me the most gratifying of all his kind expressions 
were some that touched upon my native land, and my own descent. 

Some one was speaking of the adoration paid to relics in Rome, when 
Lamartine observed—‘ all nations have some object they reverence, which, 
though perhaps insignificant in itself, is sacred from associations. Your 
country, madame, has the most precious of all manuscripts in the world— 
the signed Declaration of Independence! Do not your people make pilgrim- 
ages to look upon it?” I told him that it was indeed precious to all, but 
doubly so to me, as my grandfather’s was among those sacred signatures! 
Oh! you should have seen the magic of those few words. JLamartine rose 
and bowed to me profoundly. ‘‘ Madame,” said he, “in that name you have 
a noble heritage! It is the patent of true nobility—ever cherish your descent 
from such a patriot with honest pride.” | 

Oh, how my heart swelled with pleasure as I answered him; nor could 
the concentrated compliments of all the titled, the wealthy, and the witty in 
France have filled my soul with half the proud joy with which I now so 
faintly describe to you this evening with Lamartine. 

He expresses his intention to visit the United States in the course of a 
year or two. | 


FAREWELL TO VENICE. 


It was past ten o’clock. Still we lingered on the balcony, thinking, in 
truth, “it was wronging such a night to sleep.” At length we called Antonio, 
our family gondolier, and told him to bring out the gondola from its haven, 
where it lay beneath the shadow of the ducal palace. In a few moments it 
glided to the steps ; the black cabin was removed, so there was no covering 
between us and the sky. We were soon floating along the broad laguna, 
leaning back upon the soft cushions, and luxuriating in the matchless beauty of 
the scene. Three wonderful pictures have I beheld in Italy, which will hang 
forever on the ‘‘ walls of memory.” One was the illumination of St. Peter's ; 
another the Niagara-like cataract of fire pouring from the crater of Vesuvius; 
and the third is moonlight in Venice. There is a glory about the moonlight 
here never attending it elsewhere; the smooth sheets of water receive its 
beams as though they were immense mirrors, and thence reflecting them 
upward, fill the atmosphere with a light of such dazzling brightness, we con- 
stantly exclaimed, ‘‘ this cannot be night!” It seemed a mingling of the soft 
tints of the early morning and the tender radiance of the twilight. The air 

3 


34 WOMEN OF THE SOUTH. 


was warm and delicious, imparting a gentle languor to the senses, and lulling 
all troublous thoughts and cares to perfect oblivion. It was like a beautiful 
dream, where we seemed borne up by invisible wings and wafted from joy 
to joy. 

Along the piazza of San Marco were multitudes of lamps, their rays pierc- 
ing the still waters as though they were arrows of light. Every object was 
softened and rounded by the moonbeams, and its shadow singularly distinct 
in the water below it. Thus there appeared two cities, one above and ano- 
ther below the Grand Canal, each with its winged lion. From the open 
window of a palace came the sound of merry dancing music, while beneath 
another was.a gondola with serenaders.. We made an entire voyage through 
the streets of Venice, passing under the “Bridge of Sighs,” which for a 
moment shut out the moonlight completely ; then we glided by the palace of 
the Foscari, and did not wonder the sad Jacopo was willing to endure even 
torture that he might look upon it again; we lingered for a while beneath the 
marble-cased arch of the Rialto, and saw the house of Shylock and the home 
of Othcl'o—thus, ‘‘slowly gliding over,” we passed all the landmarks of his- 
toric and poetic interest. 

‘To-morrow we part with Italy,” I murmured, as we walked for the last 
time upon the radiant and moon-lighted city, and deep regret welled up from 
the fountain of my heart. I love the beautiful country, it contains so much 
to enrapture the fancy and delight the mind. Ah! such happy days we 
have spent in its grand old cities, by the classic shores of its memory-haunted 
Mediterranean and along its picturesque lakes. One must be insensible to the 
glories of the past and to the charms of the present not to love Italy. As the 
home of the greatest statesmen, the noblest poets, and bravest heroes of anti- 
quity, it is invested with a soul-thrilling interest. As the land where the 
early Christians planted firmly the holy cross, emblem of our Saviour’s love, 
it is truly sacred. Earth, sky and air possess here a beauty unknown in 
other climes. Every city has some treasure of painting, sculpture or science, 
Each river, vale, and mountain has its poetic or historic legend. In the 
forms of its poorest inhabitants we often see the loveliness and manly grace 
which gave to Phidias and to Praxiteles the models of the peerless statues of 
the Venus de Medici and the Apollo Belvidere. A mournful feeling of com- 
passion for her present wrongs must endear Italy to the American heart, since 
from the skeleton form of her once glorious republic we have seized the 
outline of the noble fabric of our own free and independent govern- 
ment. 


OCTAVIA WALTON LE VERT. 385 


In all our wanderings through this lovely land, we have never encountered 
one disagreeable incident, or met with look or word of rudeness or unkind- 
ness. The people have everywhere been cordial and thoughtful of our happi- 
ness and pleasure. There may have been times when we were uncomfort- 
able and wearied—when we were vastly troubled by beggars and annoyed by 
overcharging innkeepers ; but these were trifles, like motes seen for a moment 
in the sunlight, then vanishing away. Hillard, whose admirable book on 
Italy I have read since my return to America, says most truly: “Tt is only © 
the hours of sunshine that are marked upon the dial of memory.” Thus shall 
I ever cherish the pleasures we have experienced here and the remembrance 
of the dear friends who have gladdened our sojourn in beautiful Italy. 


THE WAY OVER THE SIMPLON. 


Now we perceived the Herculean labor of making the road. There were 
miles of solid masonry and hundreds of feet of galleries formed partly of the 
- living rock and partly ot huge pillars of stone and mortar. The turnings and 
windings of the way were really incredible. One valley we passed entirely 
around three times upon ledges or terraces, built one above the other, as 
though they belonged to some giant hanging garden. When we gained the 
summit we could trace far below us the narrow track like a white seam upon 
the mountain-side. Well might Sir James Mackintosh say of this road: ‘It 
is the greatest of all those monuments that dazzle the imagination by their 
splendor, and are subservient to general convenience.” 

The first gallery we entered was that of Schalbet, ninety-five feet long, and 
emerging from it we beheld all the glory of the Bernese Alps. These were 
the peaks of the Briethorn and Aletsch Horner, and the Viescher Horner, 
standing in bold relief against the clear sky. Their summits were covered 
with snow, while between them appeared the glaciers of Aletsch, the most 
extensive of the Alps. The scene was indescribably grand. 

The glacier of the Kalgwasser was just above us, not more than a hundred 
yards away. The color of the ice was of the deepest blue, with long streaks 
of white through it, caused by the melting of the mass. Several torrents 
rushed from beneath it, and fell over the cliffs in sheets of snow-like foam ; 
our eyes followed them until they were lost in the dim depths, thousands and 
thousands of feet below. Far above, where no human feet have trod, were 
the wild goats (the chamois of the Alps), standing in perfect security upon 


36 WOMEN OF THE SOUTH. 


the topmost peak of the Simplon, which was uncovered, although around and 
below it the “everlasting snows” lay pure and deep. 

Along this portion of the road the avalanches are frequent; also the towr- 
_ mentes (sudden storms). Hence the construction of many galleries as places 
of protection. They are made in such a manner that the avalanches slide 
over them and fall into the valleys below. After passing through one of 
these long-arched tunnels, termed the “ glacier galleries,” with great aper- 
tures like windows, we found ourselves beneath a waterfall, which came 
roaring from the glaciers above, and rushed over the rocks, forming the roof 
of our gallery ; thus we beheld the fearful sight, while we felt ourselves in 
safety. | 

From gallery to gallery we drove on until we came out upon the edge of 
the precipice. Then for the first time a sensation of fear thrilled our hearts, 
or rather of awe. Before us were the Bernese Alps in their lonely grandeur. 
Far below into caverns and chasms of untold depth fell the glacier torrents, 
echoing from peak to peak the music of the waterfall. Far above all, arose thé 
summit of the Simplon in white and chilly grandeur. It was entirely covered 
with snow, save a few pulpit-shaped rocks. Around it was a crown of clouds, 
touched by the sunbeams and wrought into fantastic banks of rose-hue, 
exquisitely beautiful to behold. Neither shrub, tree, nor flower formed a 
portion of the majestic spectacle, where ‘ Alps rose over Alps,” while the 
brilliant snow of ages, the eternal glaciers, and the mighty rocks reigned 
supreme. Never did I feel my soul more perfectly raised from ‘‘ Nature up 
to Nature’s God!” Who could be a skeptic in a scene like this, where the 
hand of the “‘ Great Architect” is so manifest in the glories of his creation ? 
A feeling of profound gratitude filled my bosom that my eyes had dwelt 
upon this glorious mountain-world, and that within my memory it would 
be a joy forever. 

Higher and higher we went, until we perceived near us the little cross 
marking the culminating point of the road, six thousand five hundred and 
seventy-eight feet above the level of the sea. Although the elevation was so 
great, the atmosphere was pleasantly warm, and the air so pure and clear, 
objects exceedingly distant seemed incredibly near. We left the diligence 
and climbed a rocky eminence, where we drank a bumper of jleurie to 
“those we love best” in our far-away home, turning our faces westward 
toward our heart’s Mecca, as we wafted them blessings fond and true. 

Across a grey, barren plain, we drove to a large hospice, commenced by 
the command of Napoleon, and since completed. It is occupied by friars of 


OCTAVIA WALTON LE VERT. 37 


the Augustine order. They give shelter to travellers during periods of stormy 
weather. We saw there the dogs of the great St. Bernard; they are almost 
as large as a well-grown calf, and are covered with thick, shaggy hair. 
Father Barras came out to speak with us. He is noted for his kindness to 
strangers, and has a most benevolent face. 

Along the Simplon road there are six houses of refuge for “the traveller 
worn and weary.” They are most valuable asylums, for the tempests often 
arise so suddenly, it would be impossible to escape certain destruction were 
not these places of protection wisely placed within the reach of the wayfarer. 
Then the avalanches occur when the ‘‘ heavens are brightest.” We heard 
the crushing sound of one, but it was happily far away from us in a distant 
valley. The houses of refuge are built with massive walls and furnished with 
an abundance of fire-wood. Some few are occupied by miserable-looking 
peasants, who will wait upon a stranger for a good compensation. Others 
are left open, and all enter who wish, free and without charge. 

Often, have I spoken of the delight we have experienced in meeting 
friends and acquaintances in all our wanderings. But we did not imagine, 
amid the glaciers and. the eternal snows, almost in the skies (for some 
clouds were below us), that we should still find one. During all the day we 
had remarked a handsome man, with a noble, distinguished air, walking 
at times along the mountain-road. Upon inquiry we discovered he was the 
owner of the carriage following our diligence. When we stopped at the 
hospice he came up to us, and presented us with a bouquet of Alpine flowers 
which he had gathered during the morning. There was a certain grace 
and gallant manner which at once induced me to believe he was an Ameri- 
can; therefore, to be assured of my suspicion, I made some remark concern- 
ing ‘‘our country,” and found we had known each other well in “days 
long past;” and thus on the summit of the mountain I met’a friend. It 
was truly a bright and sparkling incident in ‘‘the pass of the Simplon.” Mr. 
Ogden was with a party of intelligent gentlemen from the United States, who 
were journeying our way, and we travelled together several days. 

At Simplon (Semplone in Italian) we dined, and then proceeded on to 
thg Gallery of Algaby, the first on the Italian side of the mountain. It is 
along the Doveria, near where it rushes into the Gorge ef Gondo. Words 
cannot even give a shadow of the wild and savage grandeur of this Alpine 
gorge. Goethe, in his “‘ Faust,” has pictured just such scenes of mysterious 
gloom. The mountains appeared to have been rent asunder by some fierce 
convulsion of nature, leaving a passway for the Doveria, which rushes 


38 WOMEN OF THE SOUTH. 


through, sometimes a roaring river, then falling, a grand cataract, into the 
dark chasm below. The road is upon a terrace of solid masonry, or else upon 
a ledge cut in the rock, directly along the verge of the torrent. Far above, 
_ on the top of the cliff, was a fringe of fir-trees; all below them, was the bar- 
ren grey rock, in places perfectly white, from the sheets of snowy foam, 
caused by the myriads of waterfalls which came dashing down their sides, and 
were lost in mists ere they reached the Doveria. | 

We crossed the rushing river upon the Ponte Alto, and came to a pro- 
jection of the mountain it seemed utterly impossible to pass. But the skillful 
engineers had accomplished wonders; instead of going round it, we suddenly 
dived into the Gallery of Gondo, six hundred feet long. It appeared inter- 
minable, although there were great windows to give light. At last the guard 
called out we were nearly through. Infinite was our amazement and terror 
when the diligence emerged from the gallery, and passed under the great 
waterfall of the Frascinnone. Our hearts almost ceased to beat, as the foam 
of the roaring, wildly-rushing torrent dashed into our faces, and a sound like 
that of the crashing avalanche assailed our ears. J suppose that we screamed ; 
but the human voice was unheard in the fierce tumult of waters. We were 
only two minutes beneath the cataract, they told us; but fear so painfully 
_ magnified the time, it really seemed an hour. The cascade descending from 
the highest point of the rocky battlement above, leaves a space between the . 
stream and the cliff, along which the workmen have cut a kind of huge shelf 
where the road passes. Although apparently so dangerous, we were assured 
it was entirely safe. When beyond the reach of the spray, we insisted upon 
stopping, that we might look upon the Lrascinnone waterfall. It was a 
scene of matchless grandeur! The immense mountains rose up as high as 
the Hawk’s Nest of the Kanawha River. A little strip of sky appeared to 
roof over the great abyss, where the Doveria torrents and ourselves were 
sole occupants. 


ERUPTION OF VESUVIUS. 


The night was calm—not a wavelet disturbed the mirror-like surface of 
the bay. The moon, high in the heavens, was casting a long train of radi- 
ance over its waters. Parallel with the moonbeams fell the crimson light 
from the volcano, while between them lay a space of deep, deep blue, like a 
pavement of sapphire. How strangely beautiful was the scene! Palaces 
and domes, spires and churches, ships and little boats, were all touched with 


OCTAVIA WALTON LE VERT. 39 


silvery light, or glowing in the crimson rays of the “fiery mountain.” Along’ 
the mole were clustered hundreds of Neapolitan fishermen, urging the 
passers-by to embark with them for a row across to the base of Vesuvius, 
their dark, gipsy-like faces singularly wild by the gleams of the red light. 

But the mountain! It was perfectly wonderful! blazing and flaming like 
—but to what shall compare it? In truth, it was like Shakspeare’s Richard, 
“itself alone.” Down the side poured a cataract of lava, while from the crater 
sprang up at times great blood-red stones, which seemed poised in air for a 
few seconds, then fell crashing down below. Although we were eight or ten 
miles distant, we heard the “voice of the mountain” above all other sounds 
of earth or air. Clouds of smoke hung in festoons around the highest peak 
of Vesuvius; and though there was no wind, they were constantly changing 
into most fantastic forms, now presenting the appearance of a lion, then an 
eagle with a scroll of fire in his talons, or a procession of monks with black 
cowls, or palaces, or castles, all tinged with a crimson hue. 

* Wig *k ** * * 

At five we left Naples in an open barouche, drawn by three strong horses, 
and drove rapidly through Portici, and up the mountain to the Hermitage, 
passing through the vineyards from whose grapes the. Lachryme Christi wine 
is made. The road was thronged with carriages, horsemen, donkeys, and 
pedestrians by thousands. It was an exquisite evening, and the very heavens 
seemed to rejoice in the universal happiness; for an eruption of Vesuvius is 
a benefaction to the Neapolitans. Smiling joy was pictured on every face. 
The beggars even ceased to rap their chins and to ery “morte di fame.” 
The lame hobbled along merrily, and the blind stretched out their hands, as 
though to feel the happiness they could not see. There were crowds of hand- 
some peasant-women, with sparkling eyes and ruddy cheeks, hastening up. 
Even the poor little infants many carried, were laughing in spite of being 
wrapped up like Egyptian mummies, and tucked under their mothers’ arms 
as though they were great loaves of bread. 

At the Hermitage, midway to the summit, there was a scene precisely 
like a race-field in America. Hundreds and hundreds of carriages were all 
crammed together, while the drivers were swearing and gesticulating furi- 
ously. We gladly left our barouche, and hastened down a pathwey through 
a grove of young chestnut-trees, which brought us, after a brisk walk, to the 
verge of the lava flood. It poured from the crater far above, and formed a 
stream many miles in length. It was adeep burning red, with here and there 
a little island of black, caused by the cooling of the surface of the fiery river. 


40 WOMEN OF THE SOUTH. 


From this ravine we climbed up the heights above, and approached nearer 
the crater. There we encountered our guide Beppo, who made the ascent 
with us. The instant he perceived us, he cried out, “‘ Bene! bene! Signora! 
You remember three days ago, when I allowed you to stop on the side of the 
cone, and you asked me about the little serpent of smoke that burst from the 
lava, when the great mountain thundered,—bene/ that was the mouth of the 
crater, and the fire was trying to open it. You see what it has done now. 
Grazie a Dio! we shall eat macaroni to-night!” 

Precisely true were the words of Beppo. Just where I had gathered up 
pieces of hot lava, and heard far, far down below a wild, fierce murmur, 
almost like the utterance of human agony, a new crater had opened its flam- 
ing mouth, whence came a torrent of lava, sixty or seventy feet in width, 
flowing down the very path by which we had ascended. It did not dash 
rapidly along, as does the water, but moved slowly and majestically. It was 
only when a rocky barrier stayed its progress, that it would swell up into 
grand waves of fire, and madly dash over it. Imagine Trenton Falls, with 
every drop of water turned to flame, pouring over ledge after ledge of rocks; 
or the Anio a river of fire, rushing wildly over the heights of Tivoli, and 
some faint idea may be formed of the lava-cataract of Vesuvius. 


SILVER AND GOLDEN ILLUMINATIONS. 


At sunset we drove in an open barouche to St. Peter’s, and stopped just 
within the colonnades. An immense concourse of people, almost equal to 
the throng of the morning, was assembled in the Piazza. The carriages 
were drawn up in lines precisely as upon our race-courses in America. The 
mounted police, with drawn sabres, kept order over the movements of the 
crowd. A hoarse murmur, like the sound of a distant cataract, rose up from 
the dense mass of human beings. As twilight melted into darkness, along 
the front of the church sprang up innumerable gleaming lights, until frieze, 
column, cornice, and pillar, were all traced out in fire. This was the “silver” 
illumination. We gazed upon this for some time, in wonder and admiration, 
when the great bell of St. Peter’s tolled the hour of eight. At the first 
stroke a meteor, as though from the sky above, darted from the summit of 
the dome, and fixed itself upen the top of the cross; then as quick as thought, 
swift as electricity, thousands and thousands of blazing fires flashed over the 
noble structure, along the graceful colonnades, around the statues, and 


fo 


OCTAVIA WALTON LE VERT. A] 


beneath the arches. The waters of the fountains, catching the vivid radiance, 
fell like drops of liquid gold into the marble basins. Glorious was the spec- 
tacle—a miracle of beauty! It seemed some vision of enchantment—a 
cathedral of flame, whose perfect architecture was all revealed in glittering 
light. A slight wind caused the fires to waver to and fro, as though they 
were stars which: had fallen from their sphere above, and were now trem- 
bling and fluttering in their new abode. 


BALL OF THE COUNTESS DE WALEWSKI. 


July 20th.—A few nights ago we attended a magnificent ball at the palace 
of the Count and Countess de Walewski, on the banks of the Seine, near the 
Chamber of Deputies. The Count (now Minister of Foreign Affairs) was 
ambassador at the Court of St. James for several years, where both himself 
and his lovely wife were exceedingly admired. At Queen Victoria’s state 
ball in Buckingham Palace (during our first visit to England) I had been 
presented to them, and was earnestly pleased to meet them again. 

Twelve rooms were opened, quite as splendid as those of the Tuileries or 
the Hétel de Ville. They were each hung with a different-colored damask, 
and so highly gilded, they shone like the palace of the ‘‘Gold King.” The 
chandeliers were singularly pretty, formed of large bouquets of flowers, 
whence the light issued. Just beneath a large one, fashioned like white 
lilies, yvas an elegant crimson divan, the centre of which was a perfect bank 
of bright-hued verbenas, geraniums, and heliotropes. Around this spot the 
ladies were clustered, much more at home and as radiant as the flowers 
themselves. As it was the reception-room, ‘the graceful Countess stood near 
this group, greeting her guests as they entered with sweet words and gracious 
smiles. She kindly welcomed us to France, and gave us a seat near her, 
where we remarked the entrée of many distinguished and elegant people. 
All the ‘dignitaries of the state’? were there, the ministers, and a number 
of the English nobility; among them the Duke and Duchess of Hamilton; 
then Prince Napoleon, President of the Exposition, and his two cousins, 
Charles and Lucien Bonaparte. The Turkish Ambassador has a very inte- 
resting face, with eyes of wonderful size and brightness. He was dressed in 
the modern costume, except the crimson fez upon his head; and then he 
wore no cravat, but a wide black ribbon around his neck, to which was 
attached a medallion of diamonds of dazzling light. He was accompanied 


49 WOMEN OF THE SOUTH. 
® 

_by numerous young atiachés, uncommonly handsome men, who were really 
the most caressed beaux of the ball. Their soft and beautiful eyes seemed 
to possess 4 magnetic power over the hearts of the fair ones around them. 
There were two Egyptians of noble presence (quite as dark-skinned as our 
Betsey,) and a Haytien prince, entirely black. His manner was grave and 
dignified. 

A few officers in glittering uniforms were present. Several had recently 
returned from the Crimea, and were still pale and weak from the wounds 
received there. 

The ladies’ dresses were very brilliant, and precious jewels sparkled” 
on their bosoms, and bracelets of rare value clasped their arms. But to 
the vast circumference of the petticoats our eyes have not yet become 
accustomed. They are formed of crinoling (a fabric made of horse-hair), 
with a quilling of it around the bottom to keep the huge circle distended. 
They resemble half-inflated balloons, just rising from the ground, and the 
wearers appear compelled to push the skirts along as they walk. The courtesy, 
or curtsy, now in vogue, is most extraordinary. The ladies can no longer 
move back a step or two, and incline forward (as was their custom formerly), 
without knocking over some small man by the weight of their petticoats ; 
therefore, instead of bending forward, they give a sudden “duck down,” 
very much after the style of little Chloe when old Aunt Charlotte directs 
her in their Sunday visits to say, ‘‘How do ’ee do, Missis!” Yet how 
omnipotent is this fashion! How it reconciles us to utter monstrosities, and 
after a time makes us deem them undoubted beauties! Hence you myst not 
wonder to find us, on our return, pushing along our heavy skirts, and rolling 
to and fro like half-collapsed balloons! 

Serving-men in gorgeous liveries were constantly handing around ices, 
although there was a sumptuous buffet, where every variety of refreshment 
was politely served to the guests. 

We made the acquaintance of many agreeable people, among them the 
Princess Ghika, daughter of the reigning prince of Wallachia. She is mar- 
ried to a French gentleman, who occupied some diplomatic position in her 
country. We found her a charming woman, and accompanied her and the 
Turkish Ambassador to supper, where we had a famously merry time. Not 
far from us was the Count de Morny, whom Talleyrand prophesied (when 
he was only a child) would be a Prime Minister of France. His devotion 
to the emperor, at the time of the coup d’état of December, is known to 
the whole world. Count de Morny, although not more than forty-three 


OCTAVIA WALTON LE VERT. 43 
é 
or four, is quite bald; he has a quiet, dignified air, and the self-possession 
of a man of profound intellect. 

After leaving the supper-rooms we went out into the gardens, which were 
lighted by colored lamps hanging from trees and shrubs. The scene was 
most inviting, and the fresh perfume of the flowers delicious. Music from 
the palace floated upon the air, and mingled with the sound of the falling 
waters of the fountains, while lovely forms flitted to and fro amid the green 
foliage. How delightful it was! 


THE COLISEUM. 


The Coliseum is crumbling fast away; Rome has fallen from her early 
_ grandeur; but the world progresses more proudly than ever, for that fair 
and glorious land beyond the broad Atlantic has been added to the treasures 
of time—that unrivalled land, the birthplace of Washington and of freedom, 
which seems, ‘Pallas-like, to have sprung from the head of Jove,” with 
all the knowledge of departed centuries, and the experience of long-buried 
nations. 

At the end of a soft and balmy day of spring, we first entered the Coli- 
seum. Its immensity and desolation were overpowering. The lips abso- 
lutely refused to frame into words the emotions inspired by this grandest of 
ruins. So, to escape questions from our party concerning the impression 
made upon my mind, I stole away from them, and climbing up a mass of 
stone, I found a little nook, where I seated myself, and, free from interrup- 
tion, gazed upon the wondrous extent of the majestic Coliseum. It is of 
oval form, and when perfect, the walls were one hundred and fifty feet in 
height. Now, the lofty rim around it is broken in all directions. The deep 
blue sky seemed to rest like a roof above the arches, which rose up tier over 
tier to the summit, where once floated an awning, as protection from the 
mid-day sun. It is built of travertine rock, whose coarse grain and porous 
texture afford a safe lodgment for the grains of dust. These soon become 
soil, whence spring myriads of flowers, and tufted bushes of dark green 
foliage. Nature appeared to have seized the ruin from decay, and hidden 
the ravages of the destroyer beneath a mantle of verdure, sprinkled with 
glowing blossoms, belonging to a flora unknown elsewhere save in ancient 
Rome. There were delicate vines clinging around enormous prostrate 


columns, while long tendrils, like garlands, were waving in the air. Along 


Ad WOMEN OF THE SOUTH. 

* . 
a terrace which encircled the arena, were still visible ranges of boxes, 
intended for the emperors and nobles. This was covered as though with a 
carpet, so various and brilliant-hued were the flowers growing upon it. Far 
up along the edge of the broken battlements was a fringe of green and 
shining ivy. 

The Coliseum was commenced by Vespasian, and finished by his son 
Titus in the year 80, a few years after the destruction of Jerusalem. 
Twelve thousand captive Jews were compelled to labor incessantly in its 
construction, and when it was completed, for one hundred days gladiatorial 
combats were held within it, and thousands of Christians were torn to 
pieces by the wild tigers, lions, and leopards. During four hundred years 
the Coliseum was devoted to these fearful games, where gladiators met, or 
where savage beasts buried their claws in the quivering flesh of human 
beings. Seas of blood have washed over the broad arena, and myriads of 
martyrs to the faith of our holy Redeemer, have yielded up their souls to 
God within those circling walls. Hence, with all these memories crowding 
on the mind, I could readily picture the terrific scenes of those horrible days, 
when 

‘“The buzz of eager nations ran, 
In murmured pity, or loud-roared applause, 
As man was slaughtered by his fellow-man. 
And wherefore slaughtered? wherefore, but because 
Such were the bloody circus’ genial laws, 
And the imperial pleasure ?” 


In the reign of Honorius these frightful combats were abolished. The 
Coliseum remained perfect for many centuries, until it became a kind of 
quarry of stone and marble, with which many great palaces were built up. 
It is said that the nephew of Paul the Third asked permission to remove 
stone for only twelve hours. This being granted to him by his uncle, he 
employed four thousand men, who assailed the walls, and bore away sufii- 
cient material to build the Farnese Palace, one of the largest in Europe. 

Pope Benedict, in 1750, caused a cross to be erected in the centre of the 
arena, and consecrated it to the martyrs who had perished within it. There 
are now rude altars, with paintings illustrating the progress of the Saviour 
from the prison to the place of his crucifixion. Just after twilight a long 
train of monks, with a linen mask entirely concealing their faces, went 
chanting around the arena. Great shadows falling from the walls above, 


OCTAVIA WALTON LE VERT. 45 
seemed now and then to ingulf them in dark caverns, as they passed 
along. 

Even more suggestive of picturesque and wild grandeur was the Coliseum 
at night, when the bright stars were out, and the tender beams of the young 
moon were just disappearing beyond the ivy-crowned rim of the lofty walls. 
With that view ended our first visit; but often again did I see it. If Mont 
Blane may be styled the ‘Monarch of Mountains,” the Coliseum may be 
justly hailed as the “Sovereign of Ruins.” | 


THE HOME OF THE BROWNINGS. 


I have spent the evening at the Casa Guidi, with Mr. and Mrs. Browning, 
whose poems we have read with such earnest pleasure at home. We have 
mutual and dear friends in England, and soon after my arrival, we called 
upon them, and have found in their acquaintance another link of enchantment 
to bind Florence to memory forever. 

During all the years of her early life, Elizabeth Barrett was an invalid, 
shut in from society, and often even from the conversation of friends. While 
a close prisoner in her chamber, she wrote beautifal and noble poems, which 
have made the delight of many a household beyond the Atlantic, and the 
joy of her compatriots. Robert Browning, himself a poet, a man of rare 
talent and great personal attraction, read these ontpourings of her pure and 
gifted mind, and loved the unseen authoress. After many weary months of 
entreaty, he was allowed to visit her, as she lay upon the sofa of her boudoir. 
I need not tell you, the sight of her sweet and gentle face, and her beaming, 
soul-lit smile, completed the conquest her genius had commeneed. He mar- 
ried her, and brought her immediately to Italy, where they have ever since 
resided. Although her health is still delicate, and requires the unceasing 
watchfulness of love and friendship, she becomes every year stronger in this 
delicious clime, and is the happy mother of a lovely little boy. 

Robert Browning is an admirable man, frank, cheerful, and charming. 
He is said to be the most captivating conversationist on the Continent; (how- 
ever, I think there are some in America quite equal to him). There is a 
genial warmth, and a sparkling merriment, in his words, which made us 
friends at once. Then Mrs. Browning I loved directly. Oh! she is indeed 
a precious gem! With all her varied and profound learning, and high poetic 
gift, she is as simple and unassuming in manner asa child. What a visit of 


46 WOMEN OF THE SOUTH. 


joy it was to me, in their love-sanctified and art-beautified home. Their 
union seems perfect in happiness, the mind as well as the heart having met 
its own affinity. When we parted, after some hours of: delightful conversa- 
tion, wherein the bright and tender nature of Elizabeth Browning shone like 
soft beams: of light, I felt as though years of pleasant acquaintance had 
passed between us. 

Dear Mrs. Kinney, our own sweet poetess, has been most cordially kind 
and affectionate to us. In her apartments we have spent several evenings 
of true enjoyment. She has presented me to a number of distinguished 
people who live here, Florentines, English, and Americans; among them an 
exceedingly handsome couple, the Count and Countess Cottrell, and two 
brothers of Tennyson the poet. We met there, likewise, Hart, the sculptor, 
who is modelling the statue of Henry Clay for the ladies of Richmond. He 
tells me the work is nearly completed, and other persons say it will be a 
most noble and majestic monument to America’s greatest statesman. 


JENNY LIND. 


Words cannot shadow forth the resistless charm of her wonderful voice; 
music gushes from her throat in rills of song, until the whole theatre is full 
of melody. . 

In the trio with the flutes, her voice soars far above their sweetest or 
clearest tones. With merry glee, she seems to revel and sport amid the higher 
notes, and mocks, with playful grace, all efforts of the instruments to follow 
her wanderings, in her own realm of song. : 

‘The Mountain Song” is a miracle of sound. In it she imitates the 
herdsman’s call to his flocks, and the echoes which the hills give back again. 
The last long-sustained note is enchanting. It is low, soft, and wild. It 
swells around you—now above, now below—until the air rings with harmony. 
It does not resemble any sound of earth or of air I have ever listened to, save 
the “mysterious music,” which haunts the shores of Pascagoula Bay. _ 

The “ Birdling Song,” is exquisite. The joyous warblings of the bird is as 
perfectly heard as though you wandered amid the deep forest glades of Swe- 
den. When she sings this melody her face is lighted up with a beautiful 
smile, and the sweet words, ‘I am singing, I must be singing,” fall like pre- 
cious gems from her rosy lips. 

Her Italian music is rendered with science and the artistic skill of a per- 


OCTAVIA WALTON LE VERT. 47 


fect musician. Wonder is excited at the remarkable power of her clarion- 
like voice; the tones are delightful, but they do not warm the heart. Like 
the aurora borealis of northern climes, it is exquisite in its beauty, but it is 
cold as moonlight upon the snow. Hence, in Italian music, I would not style 
her the ‘‘ Queen of Song,” but in the melodies of her native land, in the wild 
music of Germany, she is preéminent, and reaches heights unattainable by 
any but herself. In the uniqueness—in the sparkling brightness. of her own 
music, there is a perfection which no other vocalist has ever approached, It 
is irresistibly charming. A pure and gentle feeling possesses the heart as you 
listen. The tones of her voice come upon the senses like the falling of the 
raindrops—like the moonlight of summer—like the breeze from southern 
seas. Her musicnever awakens passionate emotions in the soul, or induces 
the ‘pulses’ wild play.” Its influence is soothing and refined. 

At all the concerts her opening song is in Italian, and I am persuaded 
no one has ever’ heard her first song without a sensation of disappoint- 
ment, which, however, quickly changes into admiration when her own 
songs come tothe ear. She steals into the heart—she does not take it by 
coup de main. 


CAROLINE GILMAN. 


THERE is, perhaps, no woman whose name has sustained 
itself longer and more endearingly with the American public, 
and is, at the same time, more closely interwoven with the 
rural and fireside literature of the South, than that of Caroline 
Gilman. And now, at the age of sixty-six, she stands before 
the mind’s eye, serene, genial, and perennial as her fame. We 
have strong faith in chirography ; and the little note she has 
sent to us, in a hand guiltless of a single flourish—round, clear, 
firm, and genuine, would seem to be a true expression of her- 
self. 

Mrs. Gilman is best known as a prose writer, though she has 
published a volume of poems which is marked by some of the 
happiest characteristics of her style, and holds no unworthy 
place in the scale of her achievements. To children, especially, 
are her pure, simple, graceful, and vivacious poems a real com- 
fort and blessing. But it is in the familiar and artistic sketches 
of her “ Recollections of a Southern Matron,” and “A New 
England Bride,” that we meet the writer face to face upon 
the fair and sunny fields of her own proper domain, and feel 
most sensibly the unaffected and magnetic sympathies of the 
woman. 

Caroline Howard, the daughter of Samuel Howard, of Boston, 
Mass., was born in that city October 8, 1794. She had just 
reached the age of three years when her father died, and her 


mother—a descendant of the Brecks, an honorable family, well 
48 


CAROLINE GILMAN. 49 


known in Boston and Philadelphia—retired with her children 
. into the country.. Though our author, in her piquant sketch of 
her own life, claims for herself a somewhat early and extraordi- 
nary power of mental retention, instancing the memory of her 
baptism, at jive weeks, with all its graphic details—‘ a cold No- 
vember morning ”’—“ the north aisle” of the church—the minister 
bending over her in his “ bush-wig,” and touching his finger to 
her “ befrilled little forehead ’”—she seems to have taken little 
note of time or events in the succeeding ten years. Removing 
with her mother, in the meanwhile, from one New England 
village to another, they at last settled upon classic and sacred 
ground, near the entrance of Mount Auburn, in Cambridge, 
Mass. From thence, at the age of ten years, our writer followed 
to their resting-place, in North Andover, the cherished remains 
of her mother. 

The religious element was early developed in Miss Howard, 
and showed itself largely in her first publication, a poem 
entitled “ Jephthah’s Rash Vow,” which appeared in 1810. 
This was soon followed by “ Jairus’ Daughter,” brought out 
in the “ North American Review.” 

In 1819, she married the Rev. Samuel Gilman, and removed 
to Charleston, 8S. C., the place of his pastoral charge. Dr. 
Gilman was known to the world «not only as an earnest and 
faithful preacher of the Unitarian faith, but as the author of 
“The Memoirs of a New England Village Choir.” 

Not until 1832 did Mrs. Gilman establish a reputation as a 
prose writer. She then commenced the publication of a 
weekly juvenile journal, called the “Southern Rose-bud,” 
which she continued for seven years. Irom this miscellany 
her writings have been, at different times, collected and repub- 
lished. ‘“ Recollections of a New England Bride,” and “ Of a 
Southern Matron,” ran rapidly through many editions, and, of 
her numerous works, are undoubtedly the most familiarly 

4 


50 WOMEN OF THE SOUTH. 


known to the public. ‘“ Poetry of Travelling,’ made up of 
graceful, humorous sketches of Northern and Southern life, 
appeared in 1838. ‘ Verses of a Lifetime,” was brought out at 
Boston in 1849, and followed by “ Tales and Ballads,” “ Ruth 
Raymond, or Love’s Progress,” “ Oracles from the Poets,” and 
“The Sibyl ”’—the last two being compilations from a wide 
range of poetry, skillfully classified to do devow as oracles. 
“Letters from Eliza Wilkinson,” during the invasion of Charles- 
ton by the British, is highly interesting and valuable as a per- 
sonal memorial of the Revolution. , 

Mrs. Gilman’s autobiographical sketch has been extensively 
copied, especially into books of this class, but affording, as its 
naive, graceful, and spirited flow does, the. best clue in our pos- 
session to her true self and style, we cannot refrain from giving 
place yet again to large portions of it, commencing with some 
reminiscences of her old home. 


Our residence [she says] was nearly opposite Governor Gerry’s, and we 
were frequent visitors there. One evening I saw a small book on the 
recessed window-seat of their parlor. It was Gesner’s ‘‘ Death of Abel;” J, 
opened it, spelt out its contents, and soon tears began to flow. Eager to 
finish it, and ashamed of emotions so novel, I sereened my little self so as to 
allow the light to fall only on the book, and, while forgotten by the group, I, 
also, forgetting the music and mirth that surrounded me, shed, at eight years, 
the first preluding tears over fictitious sorrow. 

It was formerly the custom for country people in Massachusetts to visit 
Boston in throngs on election day, and see the governor sit in his chair on 
the common. This pleasure was promised me, and a neighboring farmer was 
good enough to offer to take me to my Uncle Phillips’. Therefore, soon 
after sunrise, I- was dressed in my best frock, and red shoes, and with a large 
peony called a lection posy, in one hand, and a quarter of a dollar in the © 
other, I sprang with a merry heart into the chaise, my imagination teeming 
with soldiers and sights, and sugar-plums, and a vague thought of something 
like a huge giant sitting in a big chair, overtopping everybody. 

I was an incessant talker while travelling, therefore the time seemed 
short when I was landed, as I supposed, at my Unele Phillips’ door, and the 


CAROLINE GILMAN. 51 


farmer drove away. But what was my distress at finding myself among 
strangers! Entirely ignorant of my uncle’s direction, J knew not what to 
say. In vain a cluster of kind ladies tried to soothe and amuse me with 
promises of playmates and toys; a sense of utter loneliness and intrusion kept 
me in tears. At sunset, the good farmer returned for me, and I burst into a 
new agony of grief. I have never forgotten that long, long day with the 
kind and hospitable, but wrong Phillipses. If this statement should chance 
to be read and remembered by them, at this far interval, | beg them to 
receive the thanks which the timid girl neglected to give to her stranger 
friends. 

I had seen scarcely any children’s books except the Primer, and at the age 
of ten no poetry adapted to my age; therefore, without presumption, I may 
claim some originality at an attempt at an acrostic on an infant, by the 
name of Howard, beginning : 


‘* How sweet is the half-opened rose ! 
Oh, how sweet is the violet to view! 
Who receives more pleasure from them,” 


§ 
Here it seems I broke down in the acrostic department, and went on: 


“‘Than the one who thinks them like you ? 
Yes, yes, you're a sweet little rose, 
That will bloom like one awhile; 
And then you will be like one still, 
For I hope you will die without guile.” 


The Davidsons, at the same age, would, I suppose, have smiled at this 
poor rhyming, but in vindication of my ten-year-old-ship I must remark, 
that they were surrounded by the educational light of the present era, while 
I was in the dark age of 1805. 

My education was exceedingly irregular, a perpetual passing from school 
to school, from my earliest memory. I drew a very little, and worked the 
‘Babes in the Wood” on white satin, with floss silk; my teacher and my 
grandmother being the only persons who recognized in the remarkable indi- 
viduals that issued from my hands a likeness to those innocent sufferers. 

I taught myself the English guitar at the age of fifteen, from hearing a 
schoolmate take lessons, and ambitiously made a tune, which I doubt if 
posterity will care to hear. By depriving myself of some luxuries, I 


Se 


5? WOMEN OF THE SOUTH. 


purchased an instrument, over which my whole soul was poured in joy and 
sorrow for many years. A dear friend, who shared my desk at school, was 
kind enough to work out all my sums for me (there were no blackboards 
then), while I wrote a novel in a series of letters, under the euphonious 


name of ‘‘ Eugenia Fitz Allen.” 


The consequence is that, so far as arithmetic 
is concerned, I have been subject to perpetual mortification ever since, and 
shudder to this day when any one asks how much is seven times nine! 

I never could remember the multiplication table, and to heap coals of 
fire on its head, set it torhyme. I wrote my school themes in rhyme, and 
instead of following ‘‘ Beauty soon decays,” and ‘‘ Cherish no ill designs,” in 


B and O, I surprised my teacher with Pope’s couplet : 


‘Beauties in vain their pretty eyes may roll, 
Charms strike the sight, but merit wins the soul.” 


My teacher, who at that period was more ambitious forme than I was 
for myself, initiated me into Latin, a great step for that period. 

The desire to gratify a friend induced me to study Watts’ Logic. I did 
commit it to memory conscientiously, but on what an ungenial soil it fell! 
I think to this day, that that science is the dryest of intellectual chips, and 
for sorry quibblings, and self-evident propositions, syllogisms are only 
equalled by legal instruments, for which, by the way, I have lately seen a 
call for reform. Spirits of Locke, and Brown, and Whewell, forgive me! 

About this period I walked four miles a week to Boston to join a private 
class in French. | | 

The religious feeling was always powerful within me. J remember in 
girlhood, a passionate joy in lonely prayer, and a delicious elevation, when, 
with upraised look, I trod my chamber floor, reciting or singing Watts’ 
Sacred Lyrics. At sixteen I joined the communion at the Episcopal Church 
in Cambridge. 

At the age of eighteen I made another sacrifice in dress to purchase a 
Bible, with a margin sufficiently large to enable me to insert a commentary. 
To this object I devoted several months of study, transferring to its pages my 
deliberate convictions. 

T am glad to class myself with the few who first established the Sabbath 
School and Benevolent Society at Watertown, Massachusetts, and to say that 
I have endeavored, under all circumstances, wherever my lot has fallen, to 


carry out the work of social love. 
% x ** * ia adagy *. *% %* 


CAROLINE GILMAN. 53 


At the age of sixteen I wrote ‘“‘ Jephthah’s Rash Vow.” I was gratified 
by the request of an introduction from Miss Hannah Adams, the erudite, the 
simple-minded, and gentle-mannered author of the ‘‘ History of Religions.” 
After her warm expressions of praise for my verses, I said to her: 

“Oh, Miss Adams, how strange to hear a lady who knows so much 
admire me |” 

“My dear,” replied she, with her little lisp, “‘my writings are merely 
compilations, Jephthah is your own.” 

This incident is a specimen of her habitual humility. 

To show the change from that period, I will remark, that when I learned 
that my verses had been surreptitiously printed in a newspaper, I wept bit- 
terly, and was as alarmed as if I had been detected in man’s apparel. 

The next effusion of mine was “Jairus’ Daughter,” which was inserted, 
by-request, in the ‘‘ North American Review,” then a miscellany. 

A few years later I passed four winters at Savannah, and still vividly 
remember the love and sympathy of that genial community. 

In 1819, I married Samuel Gilman, and came to Charleston, S. C., where 
he was ordained pastor of the Unitarian Church. 

In 1832, I commenced editing the ‘‘ Rose-bud,” a hebdomadal, the first 
juvenile newspaper, if I mistake not, in the Union. Mrs. Child had led the 
way in her ‘ Monthly Miscellany,” to my apprehension one of the most per- 
fect works that have ever appeared for youth. The ‘‘ Rose-bud” gradually 
unfolded through seven columns, taking the title of the ‘‘Southern Rose,” 
and being the vehicle of some rich literature and valuable criticisms. 

From this periodical I have reprinted at various times, the following 
volumes : . 

“‘ Recollections of a New England Bride;” ‘‘ Recollections of a Southern 
Matron ;” ‘‘ Ruth Raymond, or Love’s Progress ;” ‘‘ Poetry of Travelling in the 
United States ;”,‘ Tales and Ballads ;” “ Verses of a Lifetime ;” “Letters of 
Eliza Wilkinson, during the Invasion of Charleston ;” 
for youth, now collected in one, as “Mrs. Gilman’s Gift Book.” The 
“Poetry of Travelling,” ‘‘ Tales and Ballads,” and ‘‘ Eliza Wilkinson,” are out 
of print. The “Oracles from the Poets,” and “The Sibyl,” which occu- 
pied me two years, are of later date. To these may be added ‘‘ Oracles for 


Youth.” > 
On the publication of the ‘‘ Recollections of a New England Bride,” 


also, several volumes 


I received thanks and congratulations from every quarter, and I attribute its 
popularity to the fact that it was the first attempt, in. that particular mode, 


54 WOMEN OF THE SOUTH. 


to enter into the recesses of American homes and hearths, the first unveiling 
of what I may call the altar of the Lares in our cuisine. 

I feel proud to say that a chapter in that work was fivone the first 
heralds of the temperance movement, a cause to which I shall cheerfully 
give my later as well as earlier powers. 

After the publication of the ‘‘ Poetry of Travelling,” I opened to a notice 
in areview, and was greeted with, “This affectation will never do.” It 
has amused me since to notice how “ this affectation” has spread, until we 
have now the “ Poetry of Teaching,” and the ‘‘ Poetry of Science,” etc., etc. 

My only pride is in my books for children. I have never thought myself 
a poet, only a versifier; but I know that I have learned the way to youthful 
hearts, and I think I have originated several styles of writing for them. 

While dwelling on the above sketch, I have discovered the difficulty of 
autobiography, in the impossibility of referring to one’s faults. Perchance 
were I to detail the personal mistakes and deficiencies of this long era, I 
might lose the sympathy which may have followed me thus far. 

I have purposely confined myself to my earlier recollections, believing 
that my writings will be the best exponents of my views and experience. It 
would be wrong, however, for me not to allude, in passing, to one subject 
which has had a potent influence on my life: I refer to mesmerism or mag- 
netic psychology. This seemingly mysterious agency gave me relief when 
other human aid was hopeless. 

My Heavenly Father has called me to anes trials of joy and sorrow. I 
trust they have all drawn me nearer to him. I have resided in Charleston — 
thirty-one years, and shall probably make my final resting-place in the 
beautiful cemetery adjoining my husband’s church—the church of my faith 
and my love. 


This sketch was written in 1854. Since that time we 
have to record the death of Dr. Gilman, and, very recently, 
the publication of a pure, womanly memorial of him by Mrs. 
Gilman. A southern paper pays the following tribute to the 
work : 


Recorps OF INscRripTions in the Cemetery and Building of the Unitarian, formerly denominated the 
Independent Church, Archdale street, Charleston, 8. C. From 1777 to 1860. 


The beautiful monument that perpetuates the remembrance of the faithful 
services and pure life of the tender and truthful Gilman, with its touching 


CAROLINE GILMAN. 55 


adornment of lasting love, suggested this collection of epitaphs. The flowers 
laid by the hand of affection upon that shrine, caused the generous heart of 
Mrs. Gilman to resolve to do for others what had been done for one distin- 
guished and cherished name. Gratified and struck with the fresh delight 
with which the almost worn-out inscriptions on the old gravestones were 
read, it occurred to her that a printed collection of these tributes on the 
‘marble would be acceptable to the congregation and circle of friends. We 
have before us the execution of this happy thought. The pious work could 
not have fallen into more fitting hands. The volume is a storehouse of 
sadly sweet memories, which the names upon the stones in that beautiful 
God’s Acre will revive in the breasts of many of our readers. 


May the days which remain to this estimable woman—this 
*“ past-master in the order of American female authors ”—like 
the latter days of our noble Irving, round in ripe golden sunset 
to their rest. | 


THE LOST MAIL. 


My cousin, Lewis Walpole, from the earliest childhood, was remarkable 
for finding things. His companions thought he enjoyed what is commonly 
ealled good luck, but a closer philosophy might say he was particularly 
observing. He once found two letters in a morning walk, the reward for 
which filled his pocket with spending money for a year; and as we were 
rambling together one day, he brought up from the mud on his ratan a gold 
ring. It was a plain ring with two initials; and though no immediate re- 
ward followed, it introduced him to a friendship which was like golden 
apples for the rest of his days. Once I stepped on a bit of dirty paper; 
Lewis followed me, picked it up, and laid it in his little snug pocket-book. 
Six weeks after, an advertisement appeared, offering three hundred dollars 
reward for that very bit of paper, which was the half of a note worth as. 
many thousands. 

It seemed to me that pins sprang from the earth for Lewis, for he was 
never without a row of them in his Waistcoat. If an old lady was in want 
of one, Lewis was always ready, and then his head was patted, and he was 
treated to tit-bits. Ifa pretty girl’s shawl was to be fastened, behold Lewis’ 
pin came forth, and then such a beautiful smile beamed upon him! If a 
child was in danger of losing her bonnet, Lewis’s offered pin was seized, and 


56 WOMEN OF THE SOUTH. 


he was caressed with lips and eyes, for her preservation from a maternal 
chiding. 

Cousin Lewis, some time since, removed to the far West, and I, his senior 
by a dozen years (though he was a stricken bachelor), went with him to 
darn his stockings and keep his hearth clean. We called our log house 
Sparrownest, and in one way and another made it as cozy as heart could 
wish. What could poor Cousin Lewis find now, in his wide fields and vast 
forests? Not pins, certainly; but one day, twenty miles from home, he did 
find in the wild woods a strange thing, a pretty Irish girl about sixteen years 
old, all alone, wringing her hands and sobbing as if her heart would break. 
Cousin Lewis dismounted (he was a noble horseman), and offered her assist- 
ance. The poor child only wept the more, crying out: 

‘¢ And isn’t it alone in the wide world that I am.” 

It was an awkward business, but Cousin Lewis knew better than anybody 
how to do a kindness, so he wiped her eyes, soothed her, and bade her be of 
good cheer; then took her up on his saddle and brought her home. 

What big bundle has Cousin Lewis brought home? thought I, as he rode 
up to the door in the twilight—and great was my astonishment to see a red- 
cheeked girl slip down from the saddle, with a shamefaced look. I bestirred 
myself about supper, for the child was cold and hungry. When her appetite 
was appeased (she ate a whole chicken, poor thing!) she began to cry. 

‘What can I do for you, my child 2?” said I. 

“ And isn’t it of my father I’m thinking!” said she, sobbing and wringing 
her hands. ‘‘ There were twenty of us, big and little, in the wagons, and him» 
in the front one. It was with a clever old lady I was, in the afther one, we 
to take the charge of one another, ye mind. And when the ’orses was 
stopped for walthering, I minded to go and gather some flowers I had never 
seen in my own counthry. So I sated myself down to pull some flowers, and. 
a bit of weed thereabout looked like a shamrock, and I fell a thinkin’; a kind 
of thdream came upon me, and I was at play with Kathleen and the girls, 
and thin we were for throwing peat at Dermot, and Dermot made as if to 





kiss me, the impudent , and I slapped him on the face, and thin I knew 
nothin’ more until I started up and found myself alone. The wagons were 
gone, the owls were hootin’, and the night comin’ on. Then I shouted, and 
cried, and raved, and ran till my feet failed me, and my heart was jist like 
to break in two, when the masther (here she made a low courtesy to Cousin 
Lewis) came along like the light, on a dark night, and took compassion on 
the poor girl; and she will love him all her days for his goodness, she 
will.” 


CAROLINE GILMAN. 57 


With that, Cousin Lewis took out his pocket-handkerchief, and I punched 
the fire. 

So Dora became one of us, and she sang about Sparrownest like a young 
bird, with a natural sigh now and then for her father. 

Did Cousin Lewis find anything else in the forest? Listen. As he was 
riding on horseback, in his deliberate way, on the far outskirts of his fields, 
“he saw something white scattered among the green herbage... He spurred 
his horse toward the spot. It was strewed with letters, which were dashed 
with mud and rain. Cousin Lewis alighted, and quietly deposited them all 
in his saddle-bags. , 

Dora and I had made a blazing fire, for the night was chilly, and while I 
was knitting, she trod about with a light step, laying the cloth for supper, 
and singing an Irish air about ‘‘ Dermot, my dear.” When Cousin Lewis 
came in, she sprang toward him with such joy, and hung his hat on a peg, 
and put his heavy saddle-bags in one corner, and brought him water to bathe 
his hands, and helped to draw off his great boots. He looked very fondly on 
her. You would not have thought he was so much older than she, for his 
hair was curling and black as the raven’s; mine has been grey many years. 

At supper, Cousin Lewis told us about the letters. I confess, old as I am, 
I could scarcely keep my hands from the saddle-bags, and IJ thought Dora 
would have torn them open. 

‘¢ We shall have a rainy day to-morrow,” said Cousin Lewis in his quiet 
way, “and will want amusement; besides, our Yankee clock points to bed- 
time.” 

‘“Masther, dear,” said Dora, imploringly, ‘‘the lethers will not slape a 
wink for wanting to be read.” 

“We must keep them locked up,.my love, as we do restless children,” 
said Cousin Lewis, and I think I saw him kiss the hand that struggled to take 
the key of the saddle-bags away from him. No wonder he felt young, for he 
was very straight and graceful. 

The next morning, when we assembled at breakfast, the rain descended 
in that determined style which announces a regular outpouring for the day. 

Dora and I glanced at the saddle-bags ; Cousin Lewis smiled. 

“Have you settled it with your conscience,” said he, “ whether those 
letters should be read? There has evidently been a mail robbery.” 

“You wouldn’t in rason be after sendin’ the letthers away, poor things,” 
said Dora, ‘“‘ when they were left in the forests. And it wasn’t that ye did 
to me, any how !” 

Cousin Lewis looked down, and sighed, and smiled. I could not tell 


58 WOMEN OF THE SOUTH. 


‘whether he was thinking of the letters or Dora, but I noticed, when he 
smiled, how white and even his teeth were. 

After some discussion, we decided that no seal was to be broken where 
the superscription was legible, but that it was right and proper that we 
should constitute ourselves a committee to decide which of them were in a 
state to return to the post-office. Cousin Lewis was appointed reader. 
While he gave us the contents of the following, Dora amused herself by 
treading on Carlo’s paw, who looked up in her face and whimpered. The 
date was erased . 


‘DEAR JuDGE: You will be surprised to learn that ***** has taken 
the field against us. What will European cabinets say when such addle- 
headed fellows form a part of our government? B 





, 1S up and doing. 
You must be on the alert, and circumvent these movementsif possible. The 
Secretaryship may yet be secured by a general canvassing. T. and J. are fit 
tools. Take care of S., and give a sop to the old Cerberus on the Island. 
Keep the date in mind, as ’”—— 


The rest of the writing was obliterated. The next letter made Dora stop 
playing with Carlo’s paw. 

‘¢ PHILADELPHIA, ETC. 

‘Dear Russert: I'received the books safely and thank you. After look- 
ing them over, I had an odd dream, and was awoke with my own excessive 
laughter. It is utterly preposterous that a staid lawyer, half a century old, - 
should be dreaming such dreams. 

‘‘T dreamed that I was blowing soap bubbles out of a clay pipe, a thing I 
have not done since you and I were boys at Fishkill. One after another 
they floated off, poetically enough; now rising gracefully in the sunbeams, 
and now exploding softly on the turf at my feet. At length one, the king of 
the rest, grew and grew at the end of my pipe, until it became as large as a 
wash basin. It fell and lay roiling about, offering beautiful prismatic hues 
to the eye, when presently a little square-nosed pig came grunting toward it. 
Twice he smelt it and tried to turn it, but retreated as it rolled toward him. 
Again he seemed to gather up his courage, and thrusting his square snout 
against it, it exploded with a noise like a pistol. Little squarenose ran as if 
for life and death, and I awoke in a positive perspiration with excess of 
laughter. 

“interpretation of 
** your 
“James Cor—.” 


CAROLINE GILMAN. 59 


Dora shouted with glee at this droll description, and her interest was 
kept awake by the following, written evidently by a relation of a certain 
popular character : 


‘Mrs Srppi 
‘““ West Enp or A MeRRY K, 

“DEAR VELLER: Wot with my see sickness and warious causes, its bin 
utterly onpossible for me to rite to you, tho’ it warnt for want of thinkin’ on 
you, as the thief said to the constable. Wos you ever see sick, cousin Veller? 
If you wos, you would say that you felt in the sitivation of a barrel of licker, 
that’s rolled over and over agin its vill. A most mortifyin’ thing happen’d 
a board the wessel. You know, my lovin’ cozen, the jar of bake beans you 
put aboard for my private eatin’. Wot should the stewhard do, but set it 
atop of three basins in my stateroom, and won day wen the ladies wos eatin’ 
lunch, there come an awful lurch of the see, the wich burstin’ open my door, 
driv the whole concern into the cabin. The beans was mouldy beyond 
account, and smelt werry wilely, as the pig said wen he vent to his neigh- 
bor’s pen. The beans was awfully griddle about the floor under the ladies’ 
feet, who scrambled up into the cheers. I put my head out of my birth to 
explain, and was taken with an awful qualm in the midst of a pology. 

‘Give my love to miss , and tell her the Merrycans have been quite 





shy of my letter of introducshun from her. I’m jealous she didn’t move in 
sich respectable society as me, or else she made a mistake, as the dissector 
said wen he got hold of a live body. I ain’t seen a drunken lady, nor a 
young woman married to her grandfather, nor a hypocriticle parson since I 
left the wessel. 
*T vill write agin as ever I get to Mis Soreeye. 
. “ Your loven cozen 
“TIMOTHY.” 


It may well be imagined that Sparrownest rang with our mirth, for little 
matters move one in the country. Dora laughed until she cried, but her 
mood was soon changed when Cousin Lewis, in his pathetic tones, read the » 


next letter. 


“Farner: I take my pen in desperation, not in hope—and yet perhaps, 
when you know that the body of my child lies beside me without my having 
the means to buy him a shroud, you may relent. Poor Edward is stretched 
on his hard mattress beside the boy, and his hollow cough rings fearfully 
through the empty room, Oh, father, if he had but that old sofa you 


60 WOMEN OF THE SOUTH. 


banished to the garret on the night of my birth-day ball! You will think 
me crazy to say so, but you are a murderer, father. My boy died for 
want of nourishment, and you are murdering Edward too, the best, the 





noblest Oh, Heaven, to think of the soft beds in your vacant rooms, 
and the gilt-edged cups from which you drink your odorous tea, with that 
white sugar sparkling like diamonds! I have just given poor Edward his 
nauseous draught in a tin vessel. I have not had time to cleanse it since 
my baby was ill. 

““My baby—how tranquilly he rests! Would that Edward and I might 
lie down beside him! 

‘Father, will God treat his erring children as you do? ‘Like as a 
father pitieth his children’ Oh, Father in Heaven, art thou like 


mine ?”’ 





dead.” 





‘‘ A change has come upon Edward, father; he is dying 


Dora laid her head upon the table in tears, but she soon wiped her 
eyes, and listened with feminine interest to another letter. 


‘New York. 
“DEAR IsABeL: You must not fail to be here on the 21st of next month 
as my first bridesmaid. I can take no excuse. My dress is perfect; papa 
imported it for me. There is and shall be no copy in the city. The pearls 
too are exquisitely unigue. You can form some judgment of what will be 
necessary for your own dress by mine. Of course you must be less ele- 
gant than the bride. 


“ Frock with lace trimmings, ete. : . : : . $150 

* Veil : : : : : : : : ; i 50 

‘“¢ Pocket handkerchief (the divine thing!) . : : : 20 

“‘ Embroidered gloves ; : - : ° : ° 3 
“Shoes -. : : : ° : : : ° : 2 50 
*“* Stockings : 3 : . . : . ° : 5 . 
‘“* Einbroidered scarf . : : ° ; ; : : 10 
“Set of pearls . : : ° ° ; - ? . 200 

* Bouquet of natural flowers . : “ : : : 5 


“Come, dearest Isabel, and witness my dress and my felicity! 
‘Your own 
** ELEANOR. 


“P, §.—You know you must appear with me on Sunday. Mamma has 
bought me a heaven of a bonnet with feathers,” 


CAROLINE GILMAN. 61 


Dora rolled up her eyes. ‘And isn’t it feathers that’s to make that 
bird?” said she. Upon which she began to speculate on her own wants if 
she should be married, and decided that ten dollars would be an ample dower 
for her. 

And now the impatient girl’s fingers were again thrust into the saddle- 
‘bags, but as she drew out several letters, I observed that the superscription 
on one arrested her attention. She became very pale, broke the seal impetu- 

ously, and glanced at the signature. A joyous flush came over her cheeks, 
she danced about, waving the letter in the air, caught me round the neck 
and kissed me, and threw herself into Cousin Lewis’ arms in a passion of 
tears. When she could speak, she sobbed out: 

‘“* And isn’t it father’s own handwriting, darlings? and isn’t he at Louis- 
ville, weeping for his own Dora? And will not the masther” (here she 
disengaged herself from Cousin Lewis, and stood before him with her accus- 
tomed courtesy) ‘‘ take poor Dora to the father that’s her own ?” 

Cousin Lewis was startled. 

‘*T had hoped,” said he, gravely, ‘‘ that is, Cousin Rachel and I had hoped, 
that Sparrownest would have been your home for life, Dora.” 

Dora leoked down, embarrassed, for my Cousin Lewis’ eyes were fixed 
upon her, and they were very black and sparkling, though he was a stricken 
bachelor, 

I withdrew toward the window, but did not altogether look away. I 
saw Cousin Lewis take Dora’s hand; I saw Dora blush all up to the eye- 
brows; I heard Cousin Lewis speak in a pleading tone. One would not haye 
thought him an. old bachelor by his voice. I saw little Dora tremble, her 
heart seemed starting from her bosom, and she began to cry. 

“T will not distress you,” said Cousin Lewis, tenderly. “Tell me all 
your feelings, as you are wont to do. Can you love me, and be my 
wedded wife ?” 

Dora looked up through her tears. Her eyes shone sweetly. 

‘“‘T will love the masther to the day of my death and after,” said she, 
‘but thin I will love Dermot better, and it is a sin is that.” 

Cousin Lewis dropped her hand abruptly, and left the room. He stayed 
away an hour, and then calmly prepared for Dora’s journey. And now 
I never hear him speak her name. 


WOMEN OF THE SOUTH. 


MY KNITTING-WORK. 


Youth’s buds have oped and fallen from my life’s expanding tree, 
And soberer fruits have ripened on its hardened stalks for me; 
No longer with a buoyant step I tread my pilgrim way, 

And earth’s horizon closer bends from hastening day to day. 


No more with curious questicning I seek the fervid crowd, 
Nor to ambition’s glittering shrine I feel my spirit bowed; 
But, as bewitching flatteries from worldly ones depart, 
Love’s circle narrows deeply about my quiet heart. 


Home joys come thronging round me, bright, blessed, gentle, kind ; 
The social meal, the fireside book, unfettered mind with mind ; 
The unsought song that asks no praise, but spirit-stirred and free, 
Wakes up within the thoughtful soul remembered melody. 


Nor shall my humble knitting-work pass unregarded here, 
The faithful friend who oft has chased a furrow or a tear, 
Who comes with still unwearied round to cheer my failing eye, 
And bid the curse of ennui from its polished weapons fly. 


Companionable knitting-work / when gayer friends depart, 
Thou hold’st thy busy station ever very near my heart ; 
And when no social living tones to sympathy appeal, 

I hear a gentle accent from thy softly clashing steel. 


My knitting-work! my knitting-work ! a confidant art thou, 

As smooth and shining on my lap thou liest beside me now; 

Thou know’st some stories of my thoughts the many may not know, 
As round and round the accustomed path my careful fingers go. 


Sweet, silent, quiet knitting-work ! thou interruptest not 

My reveries and pleasant thoughts, forgetting and forgot! 
I take thee up, and lay thee down, and use thee as I may, 
And not a contradicting word thy burnished lips’ will say. 


CAROLINE GILMAN. 


My moralizing knitting-work / thy threads most aptly show 
How evenly around life’s span our busy threads should go; 

And if a stitch perchance should drop, as life’s frail stitches will, 
How, if we patient take it up, the work may prosper still. 


Doe EAN A EONS 


Farewell, awhile the city’s hum 
Where busy footsteps fall, 

And welcome to my weary eye 
The planter’s friendly hall. 


Here let me rise at early dawn, 
And list the mockbird’s lay, 

That, warbling near our lowland home, 
Sits on the waving spray. 


Then tread the shady avenue. 
Beneath the cedar’s gloom, 

Or gum-tree, with its flickered shade, 
Or chinquapin’s perfume. 


Tne myrtle-tree, the orange wild, 
The cypress’ flexile bough, 

The holly with its polished leaves, 
Are all before me now. 


There towering with imperial pride, 
The rich magnolia stands, 

And here, in softer loveliness, 
The white-bloomed bay expands. 


The long grey moss hangs gracefully, 
Idly I twine its wreaths, - 
Or stop to catch the fragrant air 
The frequent blossom breathes. 


64 


WOMEN OF THE SOUTH. 


Life wakes around—the red bird darts 
Like flame from tree to tree; 

The whip-poor-will complains alone, 
The robin whistles free. 


The frightened hare scuds by my path, 
And seeks the thicket nigh ; 

The squirrel climbs the hickory bough, 
Thence peeps with careful eye. 


The humming-bird, with busy wing, 
In rainbow beauty moves, 

Above the trumpet-blossom floats, 
And sips the tube he loves. 


Triumphant to yon withered pine, 
The soaring eagle flies, 

There builds her eyry ‘mid the clouds, 
And man and heaven defies. 


The hunter’s bugle echoes near, 
And see—his weary train, 

With mingled howling scent the woods. 
Or scour the open plain. 


Yon skiff is darting from the cove, 
And list the negro’s song, 

The theme, his owner and his boat— 
While glide the crew along. 


And when the leading voice is lost, 
Receding from the shore, 

His brother boatmen swell the strain 
In chorus with the oar. 


CAROLINE GILMAN, 69 


TO THE URSULINES. 


Oh pure and gentle ones, within your ark 
Securely rest ! 

Blue be the sky above—your quiet bark— 
By soft winds blest! 


Still toil in duty and commune with heaven, 
World-weaned and free ; 

God to his humblest creatures room has given, 
And space to be. 


Space for the eagle in the vaulted sky 
To plume his wing— 

Space for the ring-dove by her young to lie, 
And softly sing. . 

Space for the sun-flower, bright with yellow glow 
To court the sky— 

Space for the violet, where the wild woods grow 
To live and die. 


Space for the ocean in its giant might, 
‘To swell and rave— 

Space for the river, tinged with rosy light, 
Where green banks wave. 


Space for the sun to tread his path in might, 
And golden pride— 

Space for the glow-worm, calling, by her light, 
Love to her side. 


Then pure and gentle ones, within your ark 
Securely rest! 
Blue be the skies above, and your still bark 
By kind winds blest. 
5 


WOMEN OF THE SOUTH. 


MY PIAZZA. 


My piazza! my piazza! some boast their lordly halls, 

Where softened gleam of curtained light on golden treasure falls, 
Where pictures in ancestral rank look stately side by side, 

And forms of beauty and of grace move on in living pride! 


I envy not the gorgeousness that decks the crowded room, 

Where vases with exotic flowers throw out their sick perfume, 
With carpets where the slippered foot sinks soft in downy swell, 
And mirrored walls reflect the cheek where dimpled beauties dwell. 


My fresh and cool piazza! I seek the healthy breeze 

That circles round thy shading vines and softly-waving trees, 
With step on step monotonous, I tread thy level floor, 

And muse upon the sacred past, or calmly look before. 


My bright and gay piazza! I love thee in the hour, 
When morning decks with dewy gems the wavy blade and flower, 
When the bird alights and sings his song upon the neighboring tree, 
As if his notes were only made to cheer himself and me. 


My cool and fresh piazza! I love thee when the sun 

His long and fervid circuit o’er the burning earth has run ; 

I joy to watch his parting light loom upward to the eye, 

And view the pencil-touch shade off, and then in softness die. 


My sociable piazza! I prize thy quiet talk, 

When arm in arm with one I love, I tread the accustomed walk ; 
Or loll within our rocking-chairs, not over nice or wise, 

And yield the careless confidence, where heart to heart replies. 


My piazza, my piazza! my spirit oft rejoices, 

When from thy distant nooks I hear the sound of youthful voices ; 
The careless jest, the bursting laugh, the carol wildly gay, | 

Or cheerful step with exercise that crowns the studious day. 


CAROLINE GILMAN. 67 


My beautiful piazza! thou hast thy nightly boast, 

When brightly in the darkened sky appear the heavenly host ; 
Arcturus glows more brilliantly than monarchs’ blazing gem, 
And fair Corona sits enshrined, like angels’ diadem. 


My loved and lone piazza! the dear ones have departed, 

And each their nightly pillow seek, the young and happy-hearted ; 
I linger still, a solemn hush is brooding o’er the skies, 

A solemn hush upon the earth in tender silence lies. 


I feel as if a spirit-wing came near and brushed my heart, 
And bade, before I yield to sleep, earth’s heavy cares depart ; 
Father, in all simplicity, I breathe the prayer I love, 

O watch around my slumbering form, or take my soul above! 


CAROLINE HOWARD. 


Mrs. Carorinr Howarp Gurovrr, the daughter of Mrs. Gil- 
man, was born and educated in Charleston, 8. C. Married at 
the age of seventeen, she was left a widow at twenty-three, and 
has since resided with her three orphan children at the home of 
her parents. 

Gracefully veiling herself with the maiden name of her 
mother, she contributed many choice poems and tales to the 
leading magazines of the South, and has been, to children 
especially, a sweet interpreter of poetry and romance. 

Mrs. Glover is best known, however, as the author of 
‘Vernon Grove, or Hearts as they Are,” a novel of extensive 
circulation, published in 1858 by Messrs. Rudd & Carleton. | 
This work appeared first as a serial in the columns of the 
“Southern Literary Messenger,” and was brought out in book 
form without the name of the author; but its skillful construc- 
tion, the grace of its style, and its artistic and analytic power, 
soon attracted attention, and called out the most favorable 
notices from the press. 

We clip the following from the “ Atlantic Monthly ” of 
January, 1859, as an assurance that, though tried by the highest 
critical standard of New England, “ Vernon Grove” has not 
been found wanting. 


This volume makes a pleasant addition to the light reading of the day. 
It is the more welcome as coming from a new field ; for we believe that the 


veil of secrecy with regard to its authorship has been so far blown aside, 
68 


CAROLINE HOWARD. 69 


that we shall be permitted to say that, although it is written by a lady of 
New England birth, it may be most properly claimed as a part of the litera- 
ture of South Carolina. It is a regular novel, although a short one. It is an 
interesting story, of marked, but not improbable incidents, involving a very 
few well-distinguished characters, who fall into situations to display which 
requires nice analysis of the mind and heart—developed in graceful and 
flowing narrative, enlivened by natural and spirited conversation. 

The atmosphere of the book is one of refined taste and high culture. The 
people in it, with scarce an exception, are people who mean to be good, and 
who are handsome, polite, accomplished and rich, or, at least, surrounded by 
_ the conveniences and even luxuries of life.¥ It isa story, too, for the most 
part, of cultivated enjoyment. There are sufferings and sorrows depicted in 
it, it is true; without them it would be no representation of real life, which 
it does not fail to be. Some tears will undoubtedly be shed over it, but the 
sufferings and sorrows are such that we feel they are, after all, leading to» 
happiness; and we are not made to dwell upon pictures of unnecessary 
misery or unavailing misfortune. Let it not be supposed, however, that we 
are speaking of a namby-pamby tale of the luxuries and successes of what is 
called ‘‘ high life,” for this book has nothing of that character. We mean 
only to point out, as far as we may without entering upon the story itself, 
that it tells of pleasant people, in pleasant circumstances, among whom it is 
a pleasure to the reader for a time to be. Many a novel “ ends well” that 
keeps us in a shudder or “‘ worry ” from the beginning to the end. Here we 
see the enjoyment ‘as we go along. Indeed, a leading characteristic of 
“ Vernon Grove” is the extremely good taste with which it is conceived and 
written ; and so we no more meet with offensive descriptions of vulgar show 
and luxury than we do with those of squalor or moral turpitude. 

It is a book marked by a high tone of moral and religious as well as 
artistic and wsthetic culture. Without being made the vehicle of any set 
theories in philosophy or art, without (so far as we know) “‘inculcating” any 
special moral axiom, it embodies much good teaching and suggestions with 
regard to music and painting, and many worthy lessons for the miad and 
‘heart. This is done as it should be, by the apparently natural development 
of the story itself. For, as we have said, the book is really a novel, and will 
be read as a novel should be, for the story—and not, in the first instance and 
with deliberation, with the critical desire to find out what lessons it teaches, 
or what sentiments it inspires. 

The narrative covers a space of several years, but it is so ata that we 


70 WOMEN OF THE SOUTH. 


are furnished with details rather than generalities; and particular scenes, 
events, and conversations are set forth vividly and minutely. The descrip- 
tions of natural scenery, and of works of.art, many of which come naturally 
into the story, show a cultivated and observant eye, and a command of 
judicious language. The characters are well developed, and with an unim- 
portant exception, there is nothing introduced into the book that is not 
necessary to the completion of the story. ‘‘ Vernon Grove” will commend 
itself to all readers who like works of fiction that are lively and healthy too; 
and will give its author high rank among the lady novelists of our day and 


country. 
‘ 


ADVENTURE IN THE CAVE. 


When Sybil turned from her examination of the crystals she found that 
the party had gone, but feeling no difficulty about following them, turned 
into the nearest chamber which she observed, supposing it to be the only 
one besides that by which she had entered, and pursued its winding course 
for some distance. At length, being a little anxious about not having over- 
taken them, she called several times but with no response, until a thought of 
terror came to her, blanching her face and causing her limbs to tremble,— 
the thought of being lost—and she quickened her pace, not knowing that 
each step led her further froin her friends. 

At last the truth burst upon her that she was indeed alone and for- 
saken in that terrible place, so full of unseen perils. The moment was ~ 
a fearful one in which she realized her situation; she shouted in agony 
for help, she called upon Vernon until her voice grew hoarse and only 
whispered vainly his name; her eyes peered into the darkness until they 
were blood-shot with the straining ; 


0) 


grew fainter in its hoarse whispers and perfectly unmanageable; her limbs 


a cold chill crept over her; her voice 


were faint. Pausing awhile to reflect upon her situation, a vision of the 
poor lost guide, of whom she had heard, came to her memory, and she 
determined that she would remain stationary, hoping that some one would 
compassionately follow her to the apartment where she was; it was better 
to do that, she thought, than to rush on into some unseen peril. Still the 
remembrance of the lost guide would not depart from her; perhaps even 
now she might be treading upon his bones, and with that sickening thought 
she raised her lantern to see if the place were at all familiar to her, and 
to assure herself that at least no unsightly skeleton kept her company; but 


CAROLINE HOWARD. 71 


moving one step further on, her foot struck upon some unseen obstacle, 
throwing her down upon the ground, while her lantern was rudely forced 
from her hand by the shock; the light flickered more brightly for a moment, 
and then was entirely extinguished, leaving her upon the cold slimy ground 
in utter darkness. Groping about, she raised herself from her prostrate 
attitude, and leaning against a broken stalagmite formation, gave herself up 
to retrospection and prayer. . 

As in the case of a person who is about to be drowned, a panorama of 
his whole life is presented in an instant of time, so did Sybil Gray conjure 
up all the past scenes of her life, and all whom in her short career she had 
ever known. First she thought of her grandmother, who had been alike 
father and mother to her, lying at home lonely and ill, with no tender hands 
of grandchild or relation to arrange her pillows or smooth down her scant 
grey locks; then of Isabel, so kind and yet so changeable, sometimes treating 
her as a companion, and then as a child or plaything; of Vernon and his 
helpless blindness, of his devotion to her through the long years of the past. 
‘—what could he, what would he do without her? Then Florence’s superb 
eyes flashed upon her in the darkness, and she thought of her; would she 
‘guide and guard him when they had relinquished all hope of finding her, and 
would \he call her his ray of light in the darkness, and would they become 
reconciled and love each other as they once did? Then the perfect happi- 
ness of the young bride and bridegroom came to her mind, and she mur- 
mured to herself how sweet it must be to Jove and to be loved, and to have 
one in the wide world who would be glad to hear every thought as it came 
unstudied from the mind, and to sit with clasped hands, as they did, feeling 
sure that they were dear to each other. Then at length her vivid imagina- 
tion wandered to Europe, that world of wonders, where Albert Linwood 
painted those beautiful angel-like heads. She wondered what he would say 
when he heard that little Sybil Grey’s bones were moldering in the silence 
of that fearful cave. . 

The humblest person, the minutest thing in her eventful life, were all 
remembered, until at last the memory turned upon herself, and her soul 
melted in pity for that poor, beating, fluttering heart of hers, and tears 
chased each other silently down her cheeks, while her hands clasped her 
throat, as if to repress the choking sensation which seemed to deprive her of 
breath. Hi 
“They will search for me and will not find me,” she sobbed; ‘‘I shall 
grow faint, and hungry, and tired here, and, like others, shall wander about 


79, WOMEN OF THE SOUTH. 


and never be heard of more; some treacherous stream will ingulf me, or [ 
shall starve, day by day, until I die a horrible death.” 

Then pity, self-pity, turned to madness, and she clasped her delicate 
hands together wildly, and beat her head against the senseless rock; then 
extending her hands, as if to ward off some demon, which in her madness 
she had conjured up, thinking that with hungry eyes it approached her, she 
uttered a despairing shriek, and struck them against a hard substance near, 
when aroll, like the heavy tone of a deep bass drum, a sort of knell to 
departing hope, sounded, and sent new terror into her soul. She did not 
know then that there was a room within the cave called the Drum Room, 
which was so named from a thin stalactite partition extending from the ceil- 
ing to the floor, and which emits, by even a gentle tap, a tone like distant 
thunder. Had she known this, she might have kept her consciousness, and 
even through her madness have had returning gleams of reason; but the 
poor girl only read in its sepulchral, unearthly tone, a confirmation of her 
terrible fate, a sort of ‘‘ Amen” to the shriek with which she filled the 
cavern, and she rose to fly, anywhere, anywhere, on, on, even if it proved to 
her certain death, which would be preferable to that cruel, prolonged, suffer- 
ing life. But she was not equal to the effort; her strength suddenly forsook 
her, and she fell with a pitiful moan upon the ground, insensible, with 
scarcely a sign of life about her save in the faint fluttering of her heart. 

At peace at last, because unconscious! Unconscious of the darkness, 
the horror, the damp cold rock which pillowed her head; oblivious to 
memory, to cheating hope, to life itself. It was a peace like that one some- 
times hopes to find in the silent grave when weary of the jar, the tears, the 
trials, the’sorrows of existence. The storm had done its worst; sail, and 
mast, and pennon, had been torn away from the graceful bark in the struggle 
with the elements, till at last it had sunk fathoms deep, out of reach of 
storm or wind, resting peacefully at length amid the coral shores. 

Poor driven bark, poor crazed, helpless, unconscious Sybil! And it was 
thus that the kind guide found her, but no effort of his could rouse her from 
her death-like stupor. He was a powerful man, used to fatigue and exer- 
tion of every kind, and though his outward bearing was rough, he had the 
heart of a woman, and he gazed upon the poor child somewhat as a mother 
would look upon a helpless infant, blessing her sweet white face, and feeling 
a joy, in rescuing her, that he had not known in his monotonous life for 
years. Then he stooped, and lifting her in his arms, carried her tenderly 
back to her friends, talking to her all the while in comforting words as though 


\ 


* CAROLINE HOWARD. 73 
she heard and understood him, bidding her to be patient, for she would soon | 
be with them again, asking her if her drooping form lay easily upon his’ 
strong muscular arm, and changing her position several times for fear that 
she might be wearied. 

It was well that Vernon’s eyes were closed to the touching sight as they 
entered; it would have been’ too sad a spectacle for one who loved her so 
tenderly. Long before they entered, the word ‘“ Found!” uttered by the 
guide in a voice which could be heard at some distance, sent a thrill to his 
heart that he never forgot, and had it not been for the persuasions of the 
rest of the party, he would have rushed forward to meet her, but they 
reminded him of the guide’s express injunctions and the danger of intricate 
- passages, and he consented at last to wait, though each succeeding moment 
seemed to swell to an hour’s duration. 

At length they entered, her slight form borne on the stalwart arm of the 
guide, while with his free hand he held his lantern aloft so that the light 
struck immediately upon her pallid face. Her position was:so helpless that 
it was hard to distinguish it from death, for her head was inclined backward, 
and her long fair hair had escaped from its fastening and was trailing on the 
ground, while her arms fell in that drooping position which the limbs of the 
lifeless always have before they become stiffened with cold. It was to the 
bystanders indeed death, though without its ungraceful rigidity. 

“Is she dead!” asked Isabel inadvertently, as they entered, and the 
group gathered round the guide, anxious to know every particular from 
his lips. 

‘“*Oh, my God, not dead!” was all that Vernon could say, ‘ she cannot, 
she must not die; while he pressed his hands tightly over hfs blinded 
eyes, as if to invoke sight therefrom, that he might assure himself of her 
real condition. 

‘“*Oh no, not dead; at least not just yet,” said the guide compassionately, 
and yet fearing to raise Vernon’s hopes too much, ‘‘ but she is in a swoon so 
deep that we cannot hope for her recovery (if she ever wakes) for some 
hours. In the meantime, we must hurry onward, and as you, Mr. Vernon, 
require no lantern and have both arms free, strong arms upon which to 
cradle the poor child, you must carry her as carefully as you can, while John 
will guide you; but remember it is a long way and a weary one, and if you 
find that your burden becomes too heavy for you, I will take her awile again 
until you get rested.” 

She was transferred to Vernon’s arms in silence, as though they were 


74. WOMEN OF THE SOUTH. 


watching a corpse. All looked upon that beautiful still face with sympa- 
thetic pity, and many of the eyes there were filled with tears; some over- 
flowed, but Klorence’s were tearless, and a fire flashed from them as she saw 

that gentle head pillowed on Vernon’s breast, and the procession, so full of 
enjoyment in the morning, passed in solemn silence along, while all unheeded 
were the varied forms of beauty that lined their path. 

And what were Vernon’s emotions as his arms enfolded that beloved 
form? Grow weary of her? Ask assistance from any one, though the way 
were twice, aye, thrice as long? Ah, no; it was too sweet a burden that he 
bore. She seemed but a feather in his arms, as he held her there, heart to heart, 
with her unbound hair waving at times upon his very lips; and as thus he 
walked from the darkness into the light of day without, a vision seemed to come 
to him as he held her there, false perchance, but still blessed because it 
included her. The cave appeared to him as earth, and its devious perplexed 
ways, and the sunlight without, the opening heaven—then a wild blissful 
thought entered his heart, cheating him with its brilliant coloring, that even 
thus one day might he hope to enter heaven. 

Often in tenderest accents he whispered her name, but the still lips gave 
no answer; then imagining that her swoon was truly death, he placed his 
hand upon her. heart, reassured by its feeble fluttering that life was yet there. 
Often, too, his soul was torn with cruel fancies, and he feared that from that 
corpse-like repose she might suddenly wake to madness, and his footsteps 
quickened to reach the outer world, and to know the worst. . 

At last they gained the entrance of the cave, and the fresh breezes of 
heaven brought something like consciousness to the insensible girl. Open- 
ing her eyes for a moment, she looked vacantly around, and sighed; then a 
faint smile played around her lips, and she nestled more closely to Vernon’s 
breast. 

‘Thank God!” said Vernon, fervently, as he heard that life-like sigh. 

His voice seemed to arrest her attention, though she appeared to try in 
vain to unclose her eyes again, and her lips moved as though she were 
dreaming, while’-a few whispered words which Vernon’s quick ear heard, 
made his heart throb wildly while she spoke. 

“Oh, it was a terrible dream,” the white lips murmured, ‘“‘ but it is over 
now; the longed-for peace has come at last.” 

“Sybil, dearest, my own beloved,” whispered Vernon, forgetting all his 
noble plans of concealment, ‘‘God is good; Ee did not, he will not take you 
from me;” but the impassioned words were all unheard, she only, like a 


CAROLINE HOWARD. ; 75 


tired child, drew closer to his bosom, not even knowing where her head was 
pillowed, and soon Vernon heard, her breathing in the calm sleep which . 
betokens life and health. | 

At this a new joy and strength rose in his soul, and he felt there was 
still something bright in life—Sybil would live—then he yielded to the 
guide’s remonstrances, and gave her up to the care of his wife, who laid her 
upon her own pleasant couch, and used restoratives which completely 
aroused her to consciousness, Then Sybil begged to be taken home, and 
when told that she was too much exhausted for the drive, with almost 
childish petulance she prayed to be carried to her own room, knowing in its 
familiar precincts, with her books around her, the soft landscape without, 
and Linwood’s calm picture of Evening within, that she would soon be 
restored. So they yielded to her entreaties, and entering their carriages 
with the blessing of the kind guide and his wife, who had reason, from the 
tangible reward which Vernon left them, to remember the day, they were 
soon on their way to Vernon Grove. 

Sybil and Vernon were alone; he could not yield her to the care of 
another while she was still so weak and helpless, and when he found that 
she was unable to sit up, he drew her head upon his bosom and she rested 
gratefully there. She smiled her thanks, too prostrated in mind and body 
to utter many words, but remembering that she could not see such an 
acknowledgment, said with earnest simplicity, ‘‘ Now I know your worth, 
my kind brother; what should I do without your friendly support ?”’ 

Vernon shuddered, but it was thus that he had taught her to address 
him. Words of passionate affection quivered on his lips, but even had he 
dared break his vow, that was no time or place, when lying there still trem- 
bling and frightened, to tell her that the heart, near which she nestled, was 
beating, wildly beating, with anything but a brother’s love for her who 
rested there. 

Home being reached, Sybil insisted upon visiting her grandmother’s room, 
but finding her well cared for, and still in that imbecile, childish state in which 
she had left her, gave herself up into the kind housekeeper’s care, who 
brought her some simple nourishment and insisted upon her retiring at once 
to her own room. There, after a fervent prayer to God for her deliver- 
ance, and an upward look at her favorite picture, which she had remembered 
so faithfully and well, together with a thought if he who painted it had 
ever dreamed while he was executing it of the calming power it would 
possess, she fell into a slumber like an infant’s, as profound and as innocent. 


V0! WOMEN OF THE SOUTH. 


Vernon’s inward struggle was too strong for sleep. ‘‘She calls me only 
what I taught her,” said he bitterly, in the loneliness of the night, *t but that 
word brother, though so tenderly uttered, chilled me through and through. 
Ah, never can I be to her anything but that, for have I not vowed it? And 
besides, she regards me only as such, and any knowledge of my love for her 
might annoy and disgust her, bereaving me even of a sister’s affection.” 
Then he made renewed vows of concealment, praying fervently that God 
would make him content that she should be the guardian angel of his 
life. 

It is a mad thing for a man to enter the lists against such a mighty power 
as Love, who even with folded or clipped wings can scale the heavens, or 
break through walls of adamant; and it was a new discipline for Vernon to 
guard himself against the thousand ways in which his heart was assailed by 
the tempter, where inclination invited its approach, and principle forbade it. 
It was a life struggle in which strength was opposed to an almost equal 
strength; but with Sybil’s welfare on his side, Vernon hoped eventually for 
victory. 


SPRING-TIME. 


God of the hours, God of these golden hours! 

My heart o’erflows with love 
To Thee, who giv’st with liberal hand these flowers ; 
To Thee, who sendest cool, delicious showers 

Fresh from the founts above. 


God of the hours, the fleeting, checkered time, 
When nature smiles and weeps, 

Thou paintest sunset clouds with hues sublime, 

Thou tunest bird-notes to the joyous chime 
That all creation keeps. 


Pale emerald trees, how gracefully ye twine 
Around your boughs a wreath; 

Or does some angel hand, with touch divine, 

Bring from celestial bowers your verdure fine 

To deck the bowers beneath ? | 


CAROLINE HOWARD. rv: 


How silently your leaflets, old and brown, 

On undulating wings, 
In autumn months, came floating, floating down, 
To form a carpet as they formed a crown 


For you, ye forest kings! , 


Well may ye bend with proud and haughty sweep, 
For sunbeams love to lie 

Upon your boughs; the breeze ye captive keep, 

And even the dewdrops, which the night-clouds weep, 
Upon your leaflets die. 


Last eve the moon on modest twilight beamed, 
And told the stars ‘twas Spring! 

She swept the wave, deliciously it gleamed, 

She touched the birds, and woke them as they dreamed 
A few soft notes to sing. 


God of the April flowers, how large thy gift— 

The rainbow of the skies 
That spans the changing clouds with footsteps swift, 
And ‘‘rainbows of the earth,” that meekly lift 

To Thee, their glorious eyes. 


And not content with flowers rich and fair, 
Thou givest perfume, too, 

That loads with burden sweet the tender air, 

And comes to fill the heart with rapture rare, 
Each blushing morn anew. 


¥ 


God of the Spring-time hours, what give we Thee; 
While thus Thou bounteous art ? 
Thou owest us naught, we owe Thee all we see— 
Enjoyments, hope, thought, health, eternity, 
The life-beat of each heart. 


78 


WOMEN OF THE SOUTH. 


This morn came birds, on pinions bright and fleet, 
A lullaby to sing 

To Winter as he slept—but other voices sweet 

The low dirge drowned, and warbled carol, meet 
To greet the waking Spring. 


Thus trees, and birds, and buds, and skies conspire 
To speak unto the heart, 
‘Renew thy strength; be fresh; be pure; desire 
To be new-touched with purifying fire, 
That Evil’s growth depart.” 


God of the heavens! from our bosoms blow 
he sin-leaves, and plant flowers 
Bedewed by gentlest rains, that they may show, 
How tended by thy love alone they grow, 
God of these golden hours! 


TO A BELOVED VOICE. 


Speak it once more, once more, in accents soft, 
Let the delicious music reach mine ear ; 
Tell me in murmured accents oft and oft, 
That I am dear. 


Teach me the spell that clings around a word, 
Teach to my lips the melody of thine, 
And let the spoken name most often heard 
i Be mine, be mine. 


Why in the still and dreamy twilight hour, 
When lone and tender musings fill the breast, 
Why does thy voice with its peculiar power 
Still my unrest ? 


CAROLINE HOWARD. 79 


Why does the memory of thy faintest tone 
In the deep midnight come upon my soul, . 
And cheer the parting hours, so sad and lone, 
As on they roll? 


Oh, if my passions overflow their bound, 
Or pride, or hate, or anger call for blame, 
Do thou, with earnest, mild, rebuking sound, 
But breathe my name: . 


But show the better way by thee approved, 
Bid me control my erring wayward will, 
And at the chiding of thy voice beloved, 
All shall be still, 


ANNA CORA MOWATT RITCHIE. 


Lives cradled in luxury are rarely heroic. Now and then 
we find one, favored by nature and fortune, who is large 
of heart, strong in mental resources, and daring enough to do 
the work revealed, though the lines fall in rough places, and 
the end is not clear. Among these exceptions it is pleasant to 
record the name of Anna Cora Mowatt Ritchie. 

Striking boldly out, when the call came, into an untried 
field—braving the opposition of friends, and the perils of a 
profession then under the ban of church and society—she not 
only achieved a brilliant career, but so preserved the attributes 
of the true woman, as to exalt her vocation. Presenting to the 
world the twofold aspect of actor and author, she distinguished 
herself in each character, redeemed her fortunes, and provided — 
for the necessities of those dependent upon her. Her name is 
given worthily to fame. 

Samuel Gouverneur Ogden, the father of Mrs. Ritchie, for 
years a merchant of high standing in New York, was a leading 
spirit in the expedition under General Miranda, which, though 
unsuccessful, opened the way to South American independence. 
The losses consequent upon the failure of this expedition made 
it necessary for him to remove to France, where he remained 
ten years. He had married the grand-daughter of Francis 
Lewis, one of the signers of the Declaration of Independence. 


_At the birth of his daughter, Anna Cora Ogden, the family 


were living at Bordeaux; but a few months after found them 
80 
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ANNA CORA MOWATT RITCHIE. 81 


domiciled at La Castagne—a fine old country seat, two miles 
from Bordeaux—a retreat, it would seem, of almost paradisiacal 
grace and beauty. 

The children of this family, at that time eleven in number, 
appear very early to have given indications of marked histrionie 
talent ; yet neither father nor mother were theatrically inclined, 
nor could they trace the proclivity in either line of ancestry. 
Private plays were much in favor with the elder sons and 
daughters, and at the extraordinary age of four years, Anna 
makes her début in the somewhat extraordinary character of 
Judge in the trial scene of “Othello.” Imagine the baby 
débutante sitting upon a high bench, in red gown and white 
wig, making the wise eyes and mouth of an august presence. 
It was the first faint whisper of destiny, . 

In her eighth year, on the 17th September, the family, 
consisting of the father and mother, seven daughters and three 
sons, embarked from Bordeaux, in the ship Brandt, for New 
York. The voyage proved a most disastrous one. On the 30th 
they encountered a terrific gale: two of the younger brothers 
were swept into the sea, and one was lost. The storm continued 
for forty-eight hours, the vessel barely escaping total wreck. 
After a few repairs, they put back for Havre, and on the 15th 
of October, again set sail, in the packet ship Queen Mab, 
arriving at New York on the 24th November, 1826. But the 
children carry La Castagne in their hearts, and the brick walls 
of Gotham oppress them. They cannot speak English, the 
American children are but dull pantomimists, and _ their 
thoughts go out longingly after the frisking, mercurial play- 
- mates they have left behind. 

3 Anna and her sister are now placed in a New York board- 

ing school, where the former makes her second appearance upon 

a mimic stage, and wins her first laurels. Unable to attend 

school with regularity, on account of delicate health, she made 
6 


82 WOMEN OF THE SOUTH. 


amends by reading at home whatever came in her way; like 
Charles Lamb’s “ Bridget Elia.” “browsing at will upon the 
fair and wholesome pasturage of good old English reading,” 
with which her father’s library was packed. Even at this age, 
she had read Shakspeare’s plays many times over. 

At the age of fourteen, she proposed to her sisters that they 
should enact a real play in honor of their father’s birth-day. 
Voltaire’s “ Alzire” is selected, and suitable costumes are 
provided by the proprietor of the Park Theatre. The fair 
manager manages the whole thing, as if to the manner born, 
and achieves her first triumph as an artiste, by merging herself 
in the Alzire she personates. So, step by step, with no dim 
foreshadowing of the career of the woman, the child climbs the 
first rounds in the ladder of its accomplishment. 

At this time Anna made the acquaintance of James Mowatt, 
a young lawyer of wealth and culture. He evidently saw in the 
bright, handsome, self-asserting school-girl the promise of rare 
development, and made haste to establish the right to bend the 
twig as he would have the tree incline. Anna seems to have felt 
a girlish pride in her man-of-the-world lover, who met her, each 
day, on her way to school, carried her books and slate, directed — 
her studies, and rewarded application with munificent gifts of 
books and flowers; but she was entirely unprepared for a 
serious proposal of marriage. What did she, a child of four- 
teen summers, know of love—of tlie responsibilities and sanc- 
tities of wifehood? Her own account of this phase of her life 
is most piquant and significant.* But Mr. Mowatt was not to 
be denied. Persevering importunity prevailed, and before the 
age of fifteen, Anna was a betrothed bride; her father consent- 
ing, upon the very proper conditions, that the union should be 
deferred two years, and Mr. Mowatt privileged to visit is 
bride elect as often as any other gentleman. 


* See Autobiography, p. 45. 


ANNA CORA MOWATT RITCHIE. 83 


In the meantime Anna was to enter society; in view of 
which event, Mr. Mowatt naturally grew nervous, and deter- 
mined, if possible, to forestall the dreaded ordeal by a secret 
marriage. Jor six months Anna was inexorable; then, through 
her heart of pity the child-woman relented, and the promise 
was given; within a week she would become his wife. One 
sister was taken into confidence, and the marriage was per- 
formed by the French clergyman of the city. The usual 
indignation-storm and reconciliation-calm followed in regular 
order. A few days passed in the old home, and Mr. and 
Mrs. Mowatt removed: to Flatbush, Long Island, where the 
former had purchased a fine old mansion, once owned by 
General Giles; a great, rambling castle of a place, shut in by 
stately trees, with dark vaults and secret chambers, bounteous 
in ghostly legends and historic interest. Then there were broad 
acres, made up of gardens and orchards, abounding with 
fruits—smiling with flowers. They called the place Melrose, 
and Anna forgot to sigh for La Castagne. 

Duly installed mistress and queen of this baronial estate, 
she gathered about her a whole army of pets; scoured the 
country on her Arabian mare; trundled hoops with her sister 
May; wrote poetry; gave entertainments, varied with music, 
dramatic performances, and tableaux vivants, and pursued her 
studies. Not so bad a beginning, after all, for the gleesome 
“ child-wife.” She began fo think the “cares of married life” 
were only a myth, invented to keep precocious children in their 
proper sphere. 

When in her eighteenth year, her health, always delicate, 
beginning perceptibly to fail, a sea voyage was recommended. 
Her sister had recently married a German gentleman of wealth 
and position, and it was atranged that Anna and a favorite 
aunt should accompany them to Europe. The voyage was 
made in three weeks, with most benignant effect upon the 


84 WOMEN OF THE SOUTH. 


invalid, and in a fortnight she had visited London and Ham- 
burg, and settled in a temporary home among the relatives of 
her brother-in-law in Bremen. 

That she might become thoroughly initiated into the mys- 
teries of German life and language, Mrs. Mowatt hired a fur- 
nished house, and commenced housekeeping on the German 
system. Determined, indefatigable, she was soon able to read 
Goethe and Schiller with ease. 

While thus occupied, Mr. Mowatt arrived, and was soon 
after stricken with partial blindness, which confined him for 
four months to a darkened room. In hope of relief, they then 
went to Paris, where the case was so successfully treated by an 
American surgeon, that, in a fortnight, Mr. Mowatt was able to 
distinguish print. Then came to Mrs. Mowatt the joyous reac- 
tion. Emerging from the darkened room, she, too, for the first 


time, opened “‘ wide eyes of sweet wonder” 


upon Paris. The 
whirl, the buoyancy, the delicious abandon of Parisian life, 
came to her languid body and weary spirit like sunbeams and 
fresh air to the pale house-plant. General Cass was then the 
American minister at Paris, and, with his pleasant family, con- 
tributed not a little to her enjoyment. 

In the meantime, she did not lose sight of her favorite pur- 
suits. Every morning, before breakfast, came the Italian 
teacher, and, in snatches of time during the day, she not only 
wrote elaborate articles for Americah periodicals, but designed 
and commenced a drama in six acts, to be represented by herself 
and sisters at a féte given on her return to America and Mel- 
rose. This drama she called “ Galzara, or the Persian Slave.” 
The play was afterward brought out successfully before a select 
audience at Melrose; it was also published in the ‘“ New World,” 
and noticed nig Satie by the press. 

With a heart enlarged, and perceptions hnugeared by her 
experience abroad, the young wife is once more at home, sport- 


* 
<= 


ANNA CORA MOWATT RITCHIE. 85 


ing among her flowers and pets, and realizing the charm of her 
surroundings with a new sense. She is nineteen now; in the 
first blush of womanhood, her mind poised and her spirit reso- 
lute: more than half conscious of strength in reserve for some- 





and it comes. 

Through Mr. Mowatt’s infirmity of sight, he became 
incapable of the business of his profession, and reluctantly 
abandoned it. Othello’s occupation gone, a natural fondness 


thing unforeseen and strange 


for speculation grew into a mania with him, and, soon after 
their return to America, his ample fortune was swept suddenly 
away. In one month Melrose must be sold. They must begin 
life anew, this disabled husband and young wife—and how ? 
Very tenderly were these tidings unfolded to Anna, but her 
dream was broken. Alone, in the bower built for her in the 
first butterfly phase of her married life, she went down into 
herself, and sat in solemn conclave with the present, the future, 
her own good gifts, and new-born thoughts. It was the crisis 
of her life, and she came out of it full-grown, with a purpose. 
She was possessed of a full, rich, contralto voice; she would give 
dramatic readings, like Mr. Vandenhoff, and redeem her home. 
Mr. Mowatt’s consent gained, the way was open. With the 
audacity of conscious ability, she allowed one fortnight for 
preparation, and then put herself to the work with all her native 
energy. Silencing objections with wise eloquence, and inspiring 
those about her with the glow of her own dauntlessness, she 
made selections from her favorite poets, recited aloud, each day, 
in the open air, and laid the necessary plans to appear before a 
public auditory. Boston had been called the American Athens. 
She would be judged first by the highest standard of intellectual 
taste, and secure a just, critical judgment. Our sometime pet 
and hoop-trundler grows apace into the grave philosopher. 
Through valuable letters of introduction, Mr. and Mrs. 
Mowatt were favorably presented to the fastidious Athenians, 
and, with the additional prestige of high-toned personality, Mrs. 


86 WOMEN OF THE SOUTH. 


Mowatt was soon at home among them. A series of readings 
was given at the Masonic Temple under the brightest auspices. 
The fine sensibilities of the woman quivered in the ordeal, but 
the motive power was stronger and deeper than these, and her 
début, before a large and select audience, was, in every sense, a 
triumph. 

Leaving Boston, she gave one night’s recitation in Provi- 
dence, and then announced a course of readings at the Stuyve- 
sant Institute of New York. She had now to come before 
friends and acquaintances, many of whom were disposed to 
ostracize her for the heroism which they could not understand, 
and so did not credit. She missed the magnetic, sympathetic 
quality of her Boston auditories, but, strong in the right, rose 
out of the ungenial sphere and achieved her usual success. 

But the excitement of an experience so new, as well as the 
chilling demeanor of some on whose friendship she relied, 
wrought painfully, at last, upon her sensitive system; aiter 
appearing once before the Rutgers’ Institute, and giving a short 
‘course to the Society Library of New York, she was attacked 
with fever and hemorrhage of the lungs, and for many months 
held life by the slightest tenure. 

During this illness, she for the first time became acquainted 
with the phenomenon of mesmeric somnambulism, and declares 
herself indebted to its agency, on more than one occasion, for 
her life. The experiences which she has given to the world on 
this head, together with her own sound, sensible philosophy 
concerning them, are worthy of careful consideration. 

Not regaining sufficient strength to avail herself of one good 
gift, she turned resolutely to another. Jorced by their fallen 
fortunes to occupy the most lucrative ground, she compiled 
books, and 





‘““ Wrote for cyclopedias, magazines, 
And weekly papers, holding up her name 
To keep it from the mud.” 


ANNA CORA MOWATT RITCHIE. 87 


Mr. Mowatt, encouraged by the ready sales of her books on 
knitting, netting, cookery, and etiquette, then embarked in the 
publishing business, hoping thus to secure to Mrs. Mowatt the 
entire profits of her toil, as well as to occupy her in a larger and 
more congenial field. Under these auspices she prepared. 
_ abridgments of the lives of Goethe and Madame d’Arblay ; but 
the people preferred etiquette and cookery to biography, and 
amiably persistent in a good cause, she turned again to the most 
profitable. About this time, in intervals of leisure, she wrote 
“‘ Evelyn,” a tale of domestic life, in two volumes. The manu- 
script, at the suggestion of an English friend, was sent to Lon- 
don for publication ; but, on hearing from the modest London 
publisher that he would bring out the book if she would be 
good enough to raise her dead heroine and carry her through 
another volume, she transferred it to an American house, more 
regardful of quality than quantity. 

It was at this stage of her life, and not, as some have sup- 
posed, in her days of affluent ease, that Mrs. Mowatt took in 
charge the three orphan children, whom she afterward reared’ 
and educated; an act which the recording angel has written 
the crowning grace of her life. 

“Evelyn,” successfully launched, was soon followed by 
“Fashion,” a spirited comedy, which was promptly accepted, 
and brought out with unusual magnificence at the Park 
Theatre. Mrs. Mowatt “awoke one morning and found her- 
self famous,” the success of her play having placed her at once 

in the public eye, and challenged the especial consideration of 
littcratewrs and managers. From the latter she began now to 
receive the most advantageous proposals to go upon the stage. 
As if to leave her no alternative, Mr. Mowatt’s publishing 
house, at this juncture, disastrously failed. Conspiracy of 
events most marked and unmistakable! With a calm careful- 
ness she reviews her life, and finds that the Divine hand alone 


88 WOMEN OF THE SOUTH. 


could have led her to the brink of this consummation. Assured 
of this, the right path fully indicated, with the consent of her 
, husband and father, she would walk in it. She had lost none 
of her womanly sensibilities, but she had learned to ensphere 
them within a conscientious purpose. 

With her usual promptitude, she set apart three weeks for 
preparation, and then, as Pauline, in the “ Lady of Lyons,” 
made her début at the Park Theatre, and became at once a 
star. Proposals for engagements now crowded upon her from 
all parts of the Union. She made the tour of the United 
States, and in one year achieved a series of two hundred 
successes. The way was not all smooth and flowery; her 
feet climbed many a Hill Difficulty, and pressed many a 
thorn, but she remembered that she had entered the profes- 
sion with a higher aim than mere amusement, and pushed 
steadily on. . 

The experience of the second year was like that of the first ; 
a persistent routine of study and discipline, a tour through the 
United States, and a succession of engagements and triumphs. 
At the close of this year, Mr. Mowatt sailed for Europe, to 
prepare the way for her professional appearance in England, - 
and Mrs. Mowatt withdrew for a brief season to her father’s 
house, of which it is said she was ever the brightest orna- 
ment. Here, amid the gay criticisms of a bevy of gifted 
sisters, who had come from near and far to welcome her, she 
wrote “ Armand,” a drama in five acts, pledged, before its . 
commencement, to the manager of the Park Theatre. This 
play was produced in the autumn of 1847, after the return of 
Mr. Mowatt, Mr. Davenport and herself personating the prin- 
cipal characters, and proved every way a worthy successor of 
its honored sister, ‘“‘ Fashion.” | 

On the Ist of November, 1847, Mr. and Mrs. Mowatt, in 
‘company with Mr. Davenport, sailed from Boston for Europe ; 


ANNA CORA MOWATT RITCHIE. 89 


and after tossing for fifteen days in a succession of gales, 
arrived at Liverpool, quite worn out with illness and anxiety. 

Mrs. Mowatt was now to encounter a new trial. Her 
husband had arranged, by the judicious advice of Mr. 
Macready, that she should make her debut in some of the Eng- 
lish provinces, in order to appear before a London audience 
fully accredited by English critics. The Theatre Royal, at 
Manchester, had been selected, and the 7th of December was 
the day appointed. English and American critics are of 
different brotherhoods; those of Manchester, in a high degree, 
astute and hypercritical, merciless sifters of transatlantic pre- 
tension. But failure was a word unknown in Mrs. Mowatt’s 
vocabulary; with her faithful and accomplished coadjutor, Mr. 
Davenport, she met the test fearlessly, and brought down the 
phlegmatic English house in spite of itself. 

After appearing every night for twe weeks, she received 
and accepted a proposal for an engagement at the Princesses’ 
Theatre, of London. The slow fire of Manchester criticism 
was, after all, only an earnest of the white heat of her London 
experience. At the first rehearsal, she was received by the 
“stars” of the company with unqualified disdain, and listened 
with the best grace she could command, while they dictated 
the proper situations of the play, until patience, at last grow- 
ing weary, she proved herself a worthy descendant of her 
illustrious grandsires, by turning the tables upon her British 
persecutors, in a most adroit and effective ‘ Declaration of 
Independence.” : 

Again, despite the frigid atmosphere of her audience, the 
sneers of ‘“‘ London assurance,” the petty manceuverings of Lon- 
don rivals, and the horrors of “stage fright,” her début was a 
triumph, to which the London press lazily awoke and paid 
tribute. 

A six weeks’ course at this theatre was followed by one of 


90 WOMEN OF THE SOUTH. 


still greater length at the Olympic, and a succession of engage- 
ments at the Marylebone, which left Mrs. Mowatt a fixed 
“star” in the royal firmament of the latter. Here “ Armand” 
was first given to the dramatic and literary world of London. 
It was enacted twenty-one nights, winning for the artist-author 
a double weight of golden opinions, and at the close of the 
season, the more substantial offering of an exquisite silver vase, 
lined with gold, surmounted by a statuette of Shakspeare, and 
inscribed “ To Anna Cora Mowatt, for her services to the drama, 
as authoress and actress, and as a record that worth and genius 
from every land will ever be honored in England.” 

An engagement for a second season at the Marylebone and 
Olympic had been completed with great satisfaction to all 
parties, when Mr. Mowatt was again stricken with serious 
illness and threatened with entire loss of sight. Hoping by 
change of climate to effect a speedy cure, he set sail at once for 
Trinidad. It was impossible for Mrs. Mowatt to accompany 
him. Through the fulfillment of her engagements alone could 
she meet their many responsibilities, not least among them the 
outfit of the invalid ; and with a brave heart she still pressed on 
in the path marked out. | 

A third season engagement was entered into at the Olympic. 
“Fashion” and ‘ Armand” were re-produced and re-stamped 
with cordial English favor; but with every steamer from Trinidad, 
tidings of the invalid grew sadder; intelligence of a painful 
character reached her from America; and when, at last, the 
lessee and manager of the Olympic, a man high in the esteem 
of the public, was arrested for embezzlement, the theatre closed 
and the company dispersed, her cup ran over; she was attacked 
with brain fever and lay for months in a state of unconscious- 
ness. When she awoke, her head had been shorn of its wealth 
Of tresses ; the winter had passed; Mr. Mowatt had recovered 
sufficiently to return, wasted and pallid, to England; the 


ANNA CORA MOWATT RITCHIE. oO] 


manager had been convicted and sentenced, and, crazed with 
the shock, had loosed his own life. All seemed, indeed, like a 
fitful dream. | 

As soon as Mrs. Mowatt could endure the fatigue of the 
journey, the two invalids removed to Malvern. Their cottage 
was only a stone’s throw from the famous water-cure establish- 
ment of that place, and they passed the summer in the pursuit 
of health. Mr. Mowatt then, for the first time, revealed the 
startling fact that the fruits of Mrs. Mowatt’s toil had been 
placed in the hands of the ill-starred manager, and that all was 
lost. There was no time to linger; she must gird her delicate 
strength anew, and go forth to provide for their necessities. 

The most advantageous offer for an engagement which she 
had received, and which Mr. Mowatt was bent on her accepting, 
was from Dublin; urged by him she nerved herself for the 
trial, and, leaving the now partially restored, and really 
cheerful invalid in charge of his faithful nurse and physician, 
with a worthy woman in attendance, she turned her face 
Dublinward. 

A brilliant début followed, and the usual series of successes 
filled the engagement. Mrs. Mowatt was then making prepa- 
rations to return to London, when the news came that Mr. 
Mowatt was no more. No need, now, to catch the trick of 
sorrow—to put on grief like a robe—to weep well—to moan 
effectively ; the tragedy is real—and dumb. THe had died like 
one falling asleep, with her pet name, “ Lily,” upon his lips, 
and a serene trust in his heart. 

On the 9th of July, 1851, Mrs. Mowatt, accompanied by her 
brother-in-law, embarked for America, arriving at New York 
on the night of the 22d instant. Two golden weeks were 
passed in the bosom of her family, and she then appointed a 
time when she would take leave of the stage; resolving, mean* 
while, to perfect herself in her art, and retire in the very zenith 


92 WOMEN OF THE SOUTH. 


of artistic success. In pursuance of this plan, she commenced 
an engagement at Niblo’s, and began to apply herself vigor- 
ously to the study of her profession ; spending several hours each 
day in dramatic reading, and testing each night the measure 
and quality of her advance, by its effect upon her audience. 
This engagement was followed by a professional tour through 
the Union, marked by successes which were crowned most 
fittingly by a complimentary benefit, proffered by the leading 
men of Boston. To be told by such persons as Geo. §. 
Hillard, Henry W. Longfellow, E. P. Whipple, Epes Sargent, 
and others: , 

“You have not bought these honors with the price of 
better things; you have moved with simple dignity along the 
slippery paths of praise and success. When we have seen you 
embodying your own conceptions of tenderness and -truth, we 
have felt that the charm of your performance flowed from the 
fact that your words and your voice were but imperfect 
expressions of yourself :”—to be told this by such men was no 
common tribute. . 

Her star was steadily nearing the desired point, when Mrs. 
Mowatt fell seriously ill, and was conveyed to her father’s 
house at Ravenswood, L. I., where, during the long months of 
professional inactivity which followed, she wrote the ‘ Auto- 
biography,” to which the world is indebted for its deepest and 
truest knowledge of her twofold life. ‘Truth is stranger than 


fiction.” 


The book has all the charm of a romance, while on 
every page we feel the strong leaps of a human heart. It isa 
live lesson of moral courage and persistency sent home with 
many a sparkling bon mot and shining tear. 

In the winter of 1853, Mrs. Mowatt entered upon her fare- 
well engagements. The clarion call of duty had been answered. 

“In nine years of loyal service, the special objects of her mission 


-- had been accomplished. She had redeemed that sweetest 


ANNA CORA MOWATT RITCHIE. G3 


privilege of competence—the power to minister unto the “ shorn 
lambs” within and without her fold. She had retained her 
womanly graces, and magnified her office ; proving to the world 
that the true woman creates everywhere an inviolable sphere. 
By close application to her art, and careful discipline of her 
powers, she had come to sway the hearts of the people at will; 
and now, in her highest “ dignities,” it was meet and right that 
the “ green curtain” of private life should fall before her. 

Her farewell series were worthy of the career they crowned ; 
the grand jinale at Niblo’s, New York,’on the 2d of June, 1854, 
exceeding in enthusiasm and brilliancy all the triumphs of the 
past. 

But while the life of the artiste was thus ending amid pomps 
and acclamations, the life of the woman was quietly beginning 
anew. Jive days after Mrs. Mowatt’s last appearance upon the 
stage, she gave her fair hand and wealth of laurels—her heart 
had gone before—into the keeping of William Foushee Ritchie, 
of Richmond, Va., the editor of the “ Richmond Enquirer ;” 
“a rare compound,” as one has said,* “of ability and amia- 
bility.” The same graceful writer says of Mrs. Ritchie and her 
new surroundings: “She lives, as a poet should, in a cottage 
orné, a little distance from the city. I could have selected her 
house from a thousand as easily as I could the fair occupant 
among a multitude of women. There were flowers before the 
door, flowers on the lawn, a flowery taste manifest in the dispo- 
sition of the window drapery; a pleasant, affectionate, rant 
expression radiating from all around, fitly preluding the holy 
harmony of a happy home. Within, the entowrage was more 
exquisite still. Books, pictures, statuettes, and all the every- 
day, yet elegant appliances of household life, completed the 


) oh 


ideal ‘ poetry of home. a 


* See ‘ Belle Brittan on a Tour.” 


O4 WOMEN OF THE SOUTH. 


In 1855, Mrs. Ritchie gave to the world the volume, “ Mimic 
Life,” a series of tales and pictures of the stage, which hold the 
reader with their breathing verity. This was followed, in 1857, 
by “Twin Roses,” a story also of stage life—a sweet, sad narra- 
tive, dipped in the tenderest poetry of the writer’s soul. Mrs. 
Ritchie is yet true to her “ mission,” and aims to give in het 
books faithful revelations of theatrical life, about which the 
world, seeing it, at best, through a glass darkly, was getting 
very dark fancies. 

The stirring public life of Mrs. Mowatt does not seem at all 
to affect the serene, private life of Mrs. Ritchie. Into its ambi- 
ent atmosphere of love and beauty, there stealeth, apparently, 
no longing for the old whirl and circumstance of the stage. 
The centre of a gifted and refined cirele, in communication with 
many of the leading minds of the age—Vice-Regent of the 
Mount Vernon Association for Virginia, her life is still crowded. 
The power of concentration is remarkable in Mrs. Ritchie. At 
present, the purchase and improvement of Mount Vernon is the 
all-absorbing thought with her, and every energy is pushed to 
this consummation. . 

Of her success as a dramatist, it is sufficient to say that 
“ Fashion ” and “ Armand’ have kept the stage persistently, 
the first for sixteen, the last for fourteen years. Her poetic 
faculty should be gauged by passages—full of poetic fire and 
beauty—in “ Armand,” rather than by her fugitive poems, 
though many of these do her great credit. - 

With the exception of her characteristic sketches, contributed 
weekly to the “ New York Ledger,” she finds time, just now, 
for no literary labor, every hour being occupied with home 
duties, correspondence, and the various claims of Mount Ver- 
non. 

[Since this was written, a great sorrow has come upon Mrs, 
Ritchie, in the death of her father. On the 5th of April, 1860, 


4 


ANNA CORA MOWATT RITCHIE. 95 


after an illness of twelve days, during the agonies of which he 
beautifully demonstrated the power of a Christian faith, Mr. 
Ogden passed, in the eighty-first year of his age, to another 
sphere. LBound to him by a love that was more than filial, for 
ten days and nights this daughter, the pride and joy of his long 
life, kept faithful vigil by his bedside, and when he “ fell asleep, 
it was calmly and gently, like a trusting child, in her arms. ] 


MESMERIC SOMNAMBULISM. 


I was annoyed at being toid that I had spoken, done, or written that of 
which I had no recollection. Numerous poems were placed in my hands, 
which, I was. informed, I had improvised as rapidly as they could be taken 
down, the subjects having been given hap-hazard by any person present. 
It was no particular gratification to be assured that I had never produced 
anything as good before. Nor was it any consolation to be told that in 
sleep-waking I was far more sensible, more interesting, and more amiable 
than in my ordinary state. With womanly perverseness, I preferred my 
every-day imperfection to this mysterious and incomprehensibly-brought- 
about superiority. For the former I was, at least, responsible; to the latter 
T could lay no conscious claim. 

I say conscious claim, though it may be admitted that there may be 
separate states of consciousness. In the phenomena of this separation, the 
student of human nature may, I believe, find the clue to momentous truths. 
The essential facts in ordinary somnambulism will not be denied ‘except 
by those awfully rigorous inquirers who will accept nothing which they 
cannot weigh, gauge, and handle, and who are quite as likely to be de- 
ceived as the most credulous, inasmuch as the skepticism which admits 
too little is as liable to mistake as the marvellous propensity which admits 
too much. But if pretenders to science will not grant it, common. expe- 
rience and common sense will, that a person in somnambulism may hold 
long and rational conversations, and perform acts, of which he will have 
no recollection in his waking state. Let him again pass, however, into 
somnambulism, and he can recall everything that he ever experienced in 
that state. 

It would seem from this common and undeniable phenomenon, as if there 


96 WOMEN OF THE SOUTH. 


were an inner consciousness occupying a higher plane than the external, and 
commanding a more extensive prospect, a consciousness undeveloped in most 
minds except by flashes, and retiring within itself before the external can 
distinctly realize its presence. 

How shall we account for the thick veil of separation, dropped at once 
by the cessation of somnambulism (whether independent or induced by mes- 
merism) between the normal and abnormal, the external and internal coné 
sciousness? An analogy drawn from intoxication or insanity is not quite 
applicable here; for under somnambulism, one may be as calm and rational, 
and as completely in possession of all his faculties, as ever in a waking state; 
nay, those faculties may be considerably quickened and exalted. And yet a 
wave of the mesmerizer’s hand will bring the subject_back from the higher 
to the lower every-day consciousness where all that he has been saying and 
doing in his somnambulic state is an utter blank! Another wave of the 
hand, or an access of natural somnambulism, intirely independent of mes- 
merism, and lo! all the knowledge of the former state is restored, as if a 
curtain had been lifted. 

On one point I felt a degree of satisfaction, though perhaps it was only a 
proof of my natural obstinacy. They told me that I was what is called an 
independent somnambulist, and that I could, at any time, defeat the will of 
the mesmerizer, unless I chose to submit. It was also told me that my 
reasoning faculties were singularly developed under somnambulism, and 
that I often maintained opinions at variance with those of the mesmerizer, 
and others with whom I was in communication, especially on religious sub- 
jects. These opinions I could not be forced to relinquish by arguments, or 
even through the exertion of a superior will. 


AN OLD MAID. 


An old maid! Was there ever woman so wise that she could hear the 
obnoxious title applied to herself without a suppressed sigh? Though few 
are the old maids who might not have been wives if they had so willed, the 
sense of incompleteness—of undeveloped capacities—of unfulfilled duties, 
perforce will cause a passing pang. ; 

But who that knows Miriam Pleasance feels that the life of an old maid 
is necessarily dreary, profitless, colorless? And 7s Miriam an old maid? 
Damsels in the primrose-season.of youth, for whom the wedding ring binds ' 


ANNA CORA MOWATT RITCHIE. 97 


in its charmed circle the manifold joys of an ideal elysium, mockingly call 
her so; happy mothers about whose necks twine the chubby arms of cherub 
childhood, keeping ‘‘ low and wise” the ‘‘vines that bear such fruit,” pity- 
ingly call her so; broken-hearted wives, whose shattered idols prove all clay 
and ashes, whose pale lips, wreathed in smiles, veil, with Spartan heroism, the 
vulture preying on their souls, indignantly call herso! But mark how men— 
,intellectual, thinking, feeling men—hesitate to apply the ungallant appella- 
tion to sweet Miriam. Perhaps they are tongue-tied by that vague charm 
about her which half cheats one into the belief that she carries in her vestal | 
bosom some mystical light (‘‘the lamp of human love”), and lets fall its radi- 
ance on the path she treads, on the hearth where she sits, on the face into which 
she gazes. Certain it is that all are strangely brightened by her presence. 

Man recognizes the magic of a cheerful influence in women more quickly 
and more willingly than the potency of dazzling genius—of commanding 
worth—or even of enslaving beauty. Thus men, in general, value Miriam’s 
especial gift above the more brilliant endowments of her favored sisters. 

In stature Miriam is below the medium height. A form not voluptuously 
rounded nor charmingly fragile, but a neat, compact little figure, supple and 
light of motion. Not a single feature of her countenance can be termed 
beautiful, yet the whole face possesses a mobility—a capacity for rapidly 
varying .expression—an indefinable harmony that produces the effect of 
beauty. Her white teeth sparkle between fiexible lips—her black eyes 
dance and shine through jetty fringes—her dark hair, fine but not abundant, 
is knotted with peculiar grace at the back of an admirably balanced head. 

Her dress is usually of some neutral tint—a silver grey—a delicate fawn 
—or a soft dove color, lighted up and relieved by the gleam of crimson, or 
dark blue, or purple ribbons. 

Then her age—she has passed the season of youth—of surnmer, perhaps, 
and is verging upon autumn. A rich, mellow autumn—an autumn full of 
gorgeous tints 





an autumn whose forest leaves turn to scarlet and gold 
without withering—an autumn that makes one think the spring-time could 
hardly have been so beautiful. True, the dewy, evanescent, morning fresh- 
ness is gone, but ia its place reigns the more lasting, self-renewed freshness 
of mental and physical vigor. Ina word, Miriam has reached and passed the 
green ascent of thirty, and is calmly descending the verdant slope beyond. 
But life has been all gain to her—she has gathered fruits of knowledge, and 
flowers of beauty, and herbs of balm on the way, and lost nothing she does 
not think it well to part with in exchange, 


be 


( 


& 


98 WOMEN OF THE SOUTH. 


We have seldom met with an old maid upon the pages of whose early 
history there was not some love-tale inscribed—some story of unrequited 
affection—of betrayed hopes—of love sacrificed to duty—or of the grave’s 
untimely snatching away. But strange to say, there is no love-tale written 
upon Miriam’s book of life. She could never have been numbered among 
that large class of maidens who, according to Rasselas, ‘think they are in 
love, when in fact they are only idle.” Her intellect is too highly cultivated 
—her penetration too acute—her life too active, for her to form an attach- 
ment through the mere ‘‘desoin d’aimer,” the longing, though often uncon- 
scious, desire to be loved and protected, which is the secret spring of half 
the so-called love-matches in the world. A young girl’s affections, like 
graceful tendrils formed to cling, too often twine themselves around the 
object nearest and most inviting, and no other vindication save that it was 
near and invited. 

‘“‘Seeing that to waste true love on anything 


Is womanly past question.” 


But if Miriam unconsciously admits that love is a “grand necessity ” of 
existence, she feels that existence has other necessities. To bestow her 
heart, her judgment must approve the gift, and she has not encountered the 
being (though doubtless such exists) who could win the one with the 
approval of the other. This is the sole secret of her freedom. 

Had Miriam been thrown upon her own resources to gain a livelihood, 
her energy of character, and her delight in use, would have impelled her to 
fill and dignify some of the few intellectual avocations which woman’s hands 
and brains are allowed to grace. Her birth and wealth forbid, yet the cur- 
rent of life, with such an organization, can never become stagnant. Occu- 
pation is enjoyment. Her perceptions are keenly alive to discover the work 
that is spread for her hands, and to do it when found. She religiously 
believes that there is work, Heaven-allotted, to all, in the great vineyard of 
the world, and that our work lies just within our grasp, if we will but look 
for and recognize the task. ‘‘Labor is worship!” says the prophet. 
‘‘Labor is worship,” responds every throbbing pulse in Miriam’s well- 
attuned frame. Like the woman of Bethany who poured the perfumed oint- 
ment (her humble attribute of love) upon the head of her Lord, she “ did 
what she could!” What she could? What more could be required of her? 
Do what we can—as much as we can—all we can! Oh, how large would be 
the sum of works of the very humblest, feeblest, poorest, when counted up 


ANNA CORA MOWATT RITCHIE. 99 


in the Hereafter, if they only “did what they couwld/” Alas! for the thou- 
sand opportunities of ministering and comforting thrown daily in our path- 
way, while we pass by on the other side through sheer unconcern—through 
‘lack of thought” rather than ‘‘lack of heart!” Will they not rise up to 
convict us when we render the account of our stewardship in the great 
day ? 

With such thoughts ever quickening her to action, Miriam takes a lively, 
never-failing interest in all things around her. No fellow-creature is indif- 
ferent to her. She regards all with a tender sympathy—a sympathy which 
breaks unaware through cold conventionalities, and fraternizes with beings 
too seldom recognized as members of the human family. Toward the sick, 
the poor, the sad, the suffering in any shape, her hand is unhesitatingly 
stretched out. They need no credentials, save the stamp of sadness, sick- 
ness, poverty; and prompt aid is true aid. She seems endowed with God’s 
special license to console—to translate mysterious sorrows into promised 
joys—to strengthen the weak—to soften the hard—to reconcile the 
, rebellious. 

The history of any one day of her life would fill chapters with scenes of 
anguish—of passion—of hope—of happy consummations, that might adorn 
the pages of a romance. * 

Thus, Miriam, “the old maid,” is not less happy, less useful—less beloved 
than the wife and mother whose heart and hands are full of alternate cares 
and blessings. Those upon whose path of life the smile of Miriam Pleasance 
shines, never after speak scornfully of an “old maid.” We entertain but one 
fear for Miriam—it is that she will not always bear the vestal title around 
which she has woven such an indescribable charm. 


WOMAN-FRIENDSHIP. 


All the world gives ready credence to the possibility of friendship 
between man and man—some people are even inclined to believe that the 
immutable attachment of Orestes and Pylades, of AZneas and Achates, may 


be repeated among men in these inconstant modern times ;—but the devotion 





of woman to one of her own sex, the sincerity with which she clasps the 
hand or presses the lip of woman, the genuineness of her self-sacrifices daily 
made for a beloved sister, are subjects of a vast amount of skepticism. 
Philosophic writers, poets, wits, have openly declared their disbelief in the 


100 WOMEN OF THE SOUTH. | 


existence of the strange phenomena of woman-friendships. Even Dinah 
Mulock, who has written so many lines of woman which bear the impress 
of truth and wisdom—who has solved so many of the enigmas inseparable 
from woman’s nature—gravely shakes her head when she touches upon 
‘‘female friendships,” and calls up such a doubting host of “ifs” and ‘‘ buts ” 
to usher in the possibility of perfect love between women, that we inevitably 
draw the inference that she sides with the unbelievers. 

On the other hand, Shakspeare, that ‘intellectual miracle,” (as he has 
been called) whose seer-like vision pierced deeper than the eyes of grosser 
mortals—Shakspeare, whose magic plummet sounded the unreached, uncom- 
prehended depths of the human soul, reveals the hearts of women united by 
adamantine links. 

Instance the clinging fondness of Helena and Hermia, in Midsummer 
Night’s Dream :”’ : 


‘““We, Hermia, like two artificial gods, 
Have with our needles, created both one flower 
Both on one sampler, sitting on one cushion, 
Both warbling of one song, both in one key, 
As if our hands, our sides, voices and minds, 
Had been incorporate. So we grew together, 
Like to a double cherry, seeming parted, 
But yet a unison in partition, 
Two lovely berries molded on one stem ; 
So with two seeming bodies, but one heart: 
Two of the first like coats in heraldry. 


Due but to one, and crowned with one crest.” 


We have another illustration of woman-friendship, in its consummate 
beauty, portrayed in the passionate, protecting love of Beatrice for Hero in 
‘Much Ado About Nothing;” and in “As You Like It,” a still stronger 
picture in theself-renouncing, absolute devotion for Rosalind of the gentle 
Celia, who startles her wrathful father with the declaration: 





‘““ Tf she be a traitor. 

Why, so am I; we stiil have slept together, 
Rose at an instant, learn’d, play’d, eat together, 
And wheresoe’er we went, like Juno’s swans 


Still we went coupled and inseparable !” 


ANNA CORA MOWATT RITCHIR. 101 


When the implacable Duke banishes Rosalind, Celia replies: 


‘‘ Pronounce that sentence then on me, my liege, 


I cannot live out of her company.” 


Shakspeare against the world! for who knew the world one half so well? 

Not only are we impressed by the conviction that his glowing portraitures 
of woman-friendship are life-drawn; not only have we perfect faith in the 
possibility of a thoroughly unselfish, all-absorbing attachment between two 
women, but we entertain the belief that there are certain female minds so 
constituted that a tender friendship with one of the same sex is positively 
indispensable to happiness. Such natures experience an irresistible impulse 
to confide in one who, enlightened by her own yearnings and failings, can 
understand feminine wants and frailties—who can look upon feminine insuf- 
ficiencies, not from a strong, manly, but a weak, womanly point of view. 

A woman may be the most irreproachable of wives to the best of 
husbands, and yet feel a void in her affections, a chamber in her Jarge heart 
unfilled—a something needful lacking, if there be no Celia into whose ear 
she can pour the history of her joys and sorrows—to whom she can turn for 
advice, and lenient judgment, and comprehending sympathy. 

There are trivial domestic difficulties, petty annoyances, perplexing 
positions with which no woman of tact will trouble and bewilder her husband 
by relating to him. If he isa man of decided intellect, he will not attach 
any importance to these small crosses, will not even understand these 
minor miseries, and the wife is thrown back upon her own resources, vexed 
and disheartened by her failing attempt to enlist his aid or sympathy. If he 
is a man of limited mental powers, he will be more annoyed than she, and 
will only increase her vexations without disentangling a single thread of the 
fine web of dilemmas, into which she is snared. But toasympathetic female 
companion, a woman may enter into all the details of these insignificant 
trials, and, clasping a friend’s hand, she may search for and discover the clue 
that can guide her out of her domestic labyrinth. 

The higher love—the love for man—neither absorbs nor forbids the 
lower, the friendship for woman. They are distinct, emotional capacities 
which may be coexistent in one heart. They are evidences of rich, spiritual 
organization. If they dwell together in pristine purity, one affection 
strengthens rather than weakens the other. 

Who can deny that two women, through a mysterious affinity, may 


102 WOMEN OF THE SOUTH. 


become, and recognize each other as sisters in heart? Who can doubt that 
there is a bond of sisterhood between their spirits, as real and as strong as 
the tie of blood between sisters? And if this be true, must not that internal 
kinship outlive even the dissevering stroke of death, and proclaim them true 
sisters in the great hereafter? But in this lower sphere, what name can we 
give to their attachment but that of “ woman-friendship oe 


LADY TEAZLE’S INOPPORTUNE NAP. 


As may be readily imagined, I was often weary to exhaustion, even 
during the performance. On one occasion my fatigue very nearly placed me 
in a predicament as awkward to me as it would have been amusing to 
the audience. We were fulfilling a long engagement at Niblo’s. I was 
playing Lady Teazle in the “School for Scandal.” When Lady Teazle, at 
the announcement of Sir Peter, is concealed behind the screen in Joseph 
Surface’s library, she is compelled to remain a quarter of an hour, or per- 
haps twenty minutes, in this confinement. I was dreadfully fatigued, and 
glad of the opportunity to rest. There was no chair. At first I knelt for 
relief. Becoming tired of that position, I quietly laid myself down, and, 
regardless of Lady Teazle’s ostrich plumes, made a pillow of my arms for 
my head. I listened to Placide’s most humorous personation of Sir Peter | 
for a while; but gradually his voice grew more and more indistinct, melt- 
ing into a soothing murmur, and then was heard no more. I fell into a 
profound sleep. When Charles Surface is announced, Sir Peter is hurried 
by Joseph into the closet. Lady Teazle (according to Sheridan) peeps from 
behind the screen, and intimates to Joseph the propriety of locking Sir 
Peter in, and proposes her own escape. At the sound of Charles Surface’s 
step, she steals behind the screen again. The cue was given, but no Lady 
Teazle made her appearance. She was slumbering in happy unconscious- 
ness that theatres were ever instituted. 

Mr. Jones, the prompter, supposing that I had forgotten my part, ran 
to one of the wings from which he could obtain a view behind the screen. 
To his mingled diversion and consternation, he beheld Lady Teazle placidly 
sleeping upon the floor. Of course, he could not reach her, I have often 
heard him relate the frantic manner in which he shouted, in an imploring 


ANNA CORA MOWATT RITCHIE. 103 


stage whisper, “Mrs. Mowatt, wake up! For goodness sake, wake up! 
Charles Surface is just going to pull the screen down! Wakeup! You'll 
be caught by the audience asleep! Wake up! Good gracious, do wake 
up!” 

I have some confused recollection of hearing the words “wake up! 
wake up!” As I opened my heavy eyes, they fell upon Mr. Jones, making 
the most violent gesticulations, waving about his prompt-book, and almost 
dancing in the excitement of his alarm. The hand of Charles Surface was 
already on the screen. I sprang to my feet, hardly remembering where I 
was, and had barely time to smooth down my train when the screen fell. 
A moment sooner, and how would the slumbering Lady Teazle, suddenly 
awakened, have contrived to impress the audience with the sense of her deep 
contrition for her imprudence! how persuaded her husband that she had 
discovered her injustice to him during her pleasant nap! 


JULIET’S DAGGER. 


During the drudgery of rehearsal, the actor drops disenchanted from the 
realms of cloudland, where he dwelt with the ideal creations of the poet. 
The incongruous elements that compose, the frigid atmosphere that pervades, 
a theatre blind his mental vision. He struggles.in vain to catch the golden 
rays that flooded his spirit in its serene seclusion. The prismatic hues of 
imagination fade into utter darkness before the conventionalities of his pro- 
fession. All the delicacies of his inspired conception suddenly vanish, and 
he stands with the bare, cold outline of what he designed, before him, power- 
less to clothe it with beauty, Thus I felt when I first attempted to rehearse 
Juliet. Disappointed and dispirited, I turned wearily from the task. 

But when night comes, and the actor lays aside his personality with his 
every-day garments, the Promethean fire is rekindled—he reascends the 
height from which he fell in the morning—external circumstances lie beneath 
his feet—his gaze is upward, not downward—he not embodies merely, but 
ensouls the emanation of the poet’s mind. Such were my experiences when 
I first had the hardihood to enact Juliet. 

No character ever excited me more intensely. Juliet’s dagger, too im- 
petuously used, more than once drew blood. But I found the sensation of 
stabbing one’s self anything but poetic; the dagger’s point was consequently 
dulled into harmlessness. Once I forgot this necessary appendage of the 


104 WOMEN OF THE SOUTH. 


heroine in the last act. Romeo, who was lying dead upon the ground, was 
better provided. As I stooped to loosen the steel from his girdle, the 
poisoned lover, who was aware of my stabbing episodes, came suddenly to 
life, and whispered, in a sepulchral tone, ‘‘ Look out—it’s very sharp—you’ll 
stab yourself.” 


JULIET’S TOMB. 


I well remember my sensations the first time I was ever laid in Juliet’s 
tomb. The friar tells her that, according to the custom of her country, she 
shall be borne 


‘‘In her best robes, uncovered, on the bier.” 


Adhering to the text, I have since worn bridal attire in place of the shroud- 
like dress usually adopted by stage Juliets. But that night, a loose white 
muslin robe, drawn in folds around the throat, and fastened with a cord at 
the waist, was the garment accidentally chosen for me, It was too palpably 
suited to the bier. The walls of the tomb were hung with black. An 
antique lamp, that shed a luridly-green light upon my fece, was suspended 
from the centre of the sombre, though temporary, inclosure. As I lay wait- 
ing for Romeo to kill Paris, and break open the doors of the sepulchre, I 
overheard the whispered conversation of some scene-shifters who stood with- 
out. They were each holding a cord attached to the doors of the tomb. 
The cords according to stage direction, were to be loosened at the third blow 
of Romeo’s ‘‘ wrenching iron.” The worthy scene-shifters passed sentence 
of death upon me with admirable sang froid, and decided that I would soon 
be lying “for good ” and ‘‘in earnest’ where I was then reposing as Juliet’s 
representative—in the tomb. 

To use the expressive language of one of the men, I was ‘‘ booked for the 
other world, and no mistake!” Their grave predictions were interrupted by 
Romeo’s first blow upon the door. I was not particularly sorry when the 
funereal portals flew back, and he bore me out of the mock sepulchre. 


ANNA CORA MOWATT RITCHIE. |. 105 


THE REPRESENTATIVE BALCONY. 


Juliet was one of the characters in which I seemed fated to be placed in 
constant peril of life or limb. Several times the balcony, from which the 
loving lady of Verona makes her midnight confession to Romeo, was danger- 
ously insecure. Once a portion of the railing, over which I was leaning, 
forgetful of its representative nature, gave way. Had I not dropped suddenly 
on my knees, Juliet must have been precipitated into Romeo’s arms before 
he expected her, and very probably would not have visited Friar Lawrence’s 
cell that night. 


BE eNO TLON: 


One evening, the property man—so the individual who has the charge of 
potions, amulets, caskets of jewels, purses filled with any quantity of golden 
coin, and other theatrical treasures, designated as stage properties, is styled 
—forgot the bottle containing Juliet’s sleeping potion. The omission was 
only discovered at the moment the vial was needed. Some bottle must be 
‘furnished to the Friar, or he cannot utter the solemn charge with which he 
confides the drug to the perplexed scion of the Capulets. The property man 
confused at discovering his own neglect, and fearful of the fine to which it 
would subject him, caught up the first small bottle at hand, and gave it to 
the Friar. The vial was the prompter’s, and contained ink. When Juliet 
snatched the fatal potion from the Friar’s hand, he whispered something in 
an undertone. I caught the words, ‘“‘so take care,” but was too absorbed in 
my part to comprehend the warning. Juliet returns home—meets her 
parents—retires to her own chamber—dismisses her nurse—and finally 
drinks the potion. At the words— 


‘Romeo! this do I drink to thee!” 


I placed the bottle to my lips, and unsuspiciously swallowed the inky 
draught! The dark stain upon my hands and lips might have been mistaken 
for the quick workings of the poison, for the audience remained ignorant of 
the mishap, which I only half comprehended. When the scene closed, the 
prompter rushed up to me, exclaiming, “Good gracious! you have been 
drinking my bottle of ink!” —I could not resist the temptation of quoting the 


106 WOMEN OF THE SOUTH. 


remark of the dying wit under similar circumstances, ‘‘ Let me swallow a 
sheet of blotting-paper!” The frightened prompter, however, did not under- 
stand the joke. | : 


THE CAUTIOUS ACTOR. 


The misfortunes that attended the representation of Romeo and Juliet 
that night, did not all fall upon me. The part of Paris was intrusted to a 
promising young novice. He delivered the language with scholarly precision, 
and might have passed. for an actor until he came to the fighting scene 
with Romeo. Romeo disarmed him with a facility which did great credit 
to the good nature of Paris, for whom life had, of course, lost its charm: 
with Juliet. It then became the duty of Paris, who is mortally wounded, to 
die. The Paris on this occasion took his death-blow very kindly. His dying 
preparations were made with praiseworthy deliberation. First he looked 
over one shoulder, and then over the other, to find a soft place where he 
might fall—it was evidently his intention to yield up his existence as com- 
fortably as possible. Having satisfied himself in the selection of an advan- 
tageous spot, he dropped down gently, breaking his descent in a manner not 
altogether describable. As he softly laid himself back, he informed Romeo 
of the calamity that had befallen him by ejaculating: 


‘OQ, I am slain!” 


The audience hissed their rebellion at such an easy death. 
“Tf thou art merciful ”»—— 


continued Paris—the audience hissed more loudly still, as though calling upon 
Romeo to show no mercy to a man who died so luxuriously. 


‘‘ Open the tomb, and ’”’-—— 


faltered Paris—but what disposition he preferred to be made of the mortal 
mold, upon which he had bestowed such care, no Romeo could have heard ; 
for the redoubled hisses of the audience drowned all other sounds, and 
admonished Paris to precipitate his departure to the other world. 

The next day, the young aspirant for dramatic distinction was summoned 


ANNA CORA MOWATT RITCHIE. 107 


by the manager, and asked what he meant by dying in such a manner on the 
night previous. 

‘““Why, I thought that I did the thing in the most gentlemanly style,” 
replied the discomfited Thespian. 

‘‘ow came you to look behind you, sir, before you fell ?” angrily inquired 
the manager. 

“Surely you wouldn’t have me drop down without looking out to see 
what I was going to strike against ?” 

‘** Do you suppose a man, when he is killed in reality, looks behind him 
for a convenient spot before he falls, sir?” 

‘* But I wasn’t killed in reality, and I was afraid of dislocating my shoul- 
der!” pleaded Paris. 

‘“* Afraid of dislocating your shoulder! If you are afraid of breaking your: 
leg, or your neck either, when you are acting,” said the stern manager, 
‘you're not fit for this profession. Your instinct of self-preservation is too 
large for an actor’s economy. You're dismissed, sir; there’s no employment 
here for persons of your cautious temperament.” 


HAPPINESS. 


Babette. You seemed so happy! 

Blanche. Then did I—do I seem the thing I am! 
Seem happy—how could I seem otherwise ? 
Tis happiness to me to live—to be! 
My very instincts—nay, the very use 
Of every separate sense by which we hold 
Communion visible with external being 
Is happiness! To gaze upon the sky 
Arched in blue glory o’er my upturned head— 
The forms of beauty called by loving spring 
Out of the affluent bosom of the earth ; 
The sun, beneath whose warm, resplendent light 
All nature teems: these simplest, daily things, 
Which custom cannot strip of loveliness, 


108 


WOMEN OF THE SOUTH. 


To look on these is to be happy !—is’ 
To feel my bosom swell with gratitude 
To Him who made them, to make us more blest | 


ARMAND’S GRIEF. 


Arm. (after gazing awhile on BLANCHE.) 
Oh! Blanche! my own—though lost—still, still my own! 
A little while I yet may gaze on thee, 

And in the treasury of my soul may store 

The memory of each stiff ning lineament 

Where beauty lingers still! ‘‘It cannot be! 
Shall those soft eyes no more look into mine, 
Nor veil themselves when with too bold a joy 

I gaze within their azure depths? shall love, 
With its aurora, tint thy céheek no more? 

The low, glad music of thy voice, no more | 
Sunder those gentle lips, with words that fell 
Like blessings on the ears that-took them in? 

My Blanche! my other and my better self! 

How weary seems the path I thought to climb, 
Thy hand in mine,—thy smile to light me on, 
Thy sunny presence to make glad each step! 
Alone i\ife’s burden must be borne—alone 

The struggling heart crush underneath its weight !” 
A holy smile yet hovers on thy face, 

As though the angels, when they summoned thee, 
One golden glimpse of paradise revealed, 

And left that happy print upon thy lip. 

No, no! thou art not lost—we are not parted! 
For, Heavenward as my tearful eyes I turn, 

A radiant vision meets them there, and bids 

Me guard my soul, unsullied by a deed 

That could divide us in that land of joy ! 

My heart hath but one wish—my life one hope— 
All time one joy—that of rejoining thee ! 


ANNA CORA MOWATT RITCHIE. 


ARMAND’S LOVE. 


King. You loved her, then ? 


Arm. | Loved her? the earliest page 


In memory’s record held but that young love. 
From boyhood up to youth—from youth to manhood— 
Each tenderer thought—sublimer aspiration— 

And purer hope was woven with that love. 

Our very natures blended as we grew,’ 

My spirit, gentleness from hers imbibed, 

And hers, its strength and vigor caught from mine! 
Our childish tears upon each other’s breast 

Were ever shed, Our childish laughter rang 

The changes of its mingling mirth together, 

And in each other’s joy all childhood’s blessings 
Were mirrored—magnified—and multiplied! 


ARMAND’S TRUTH. 


King. Beware! our patience is not made of stutf 
Too lasting—try it not beyond its strength— 
Marry De Rohan’s daughter! ’Tis thy king 
Commands! 

Arm. % My gracious liege, no king can tear 
The land-marks from the honest path of Truth. 
Marry! call’st thou that marriage which but joins 
Two hands with iron bonds? that yokes, but not 
Unites, two hearts whose pulses never beat 
In unison? The legal crime that mocks 
The very name of marriage—that invades— 
Profanes—destroys its inner holiness ? 

No! ’tis the spirit that alone can wed, 

When with spontaneous joy it seeks and finds, 
And with its kindred spirit blends itself! 

My liege, there is no other marriage tie! 


109 


110 WOMEN OF THE SOUTH. 


VIRTUE ITS OWN SHIELD. 


King. Nay, Blanche, . 
Mar not thy beauty with this frigid bearing, 
Frowns do not suit those gentle eyes, nor fierceness 
_ Thy timid nature—weak thou art— 
Blan. Not weak, 
My liege, when roused by insult and by wrong! 
I tell thee, haughty king—presumptuous man! 
That like the unshorn locks the Nazarene 
Vowed to his God—the purity of woman 
Becomes at once her glory and her might! 
King. Ah, Blanche! and is there no excuse for love? 
Blan. Thy love is but self-love/ that first and worst 
Of passions—poisoned spring of every crime— 
Which hath no attribute of perfect love / 
King. This to thy king? 
Blan. Art kingly in thy deeds? 
The star that shines so brightly on thy breast 
Is worthless if it shed no light within! 
The throne that lifts thee o’er thy fellow-men 
Should teach thee virtues which alone can raise z 
Thee ’bove them! 
King. At thy feet let me implore— 
Bilan. Stand off! approach me not! 
King. Thou fearest me, then ? 
Blan. Fear thee? Danger should be where fear is—I see none! 
King. Woman! thou shalt not brave me thus! [Seizes her. 
No human power can save thee—thou art mine! 
What are thy feeble struggles in my grasp? 
Blan. (sinking on her knees) Spare me, my liege, spare me! 
King. It is thy turn 
To sue, and all in vain! thou hast forgot — 
That I am king, and thou hast no protector! 
Blan. (starting up) I have! Ihave! One who forsakes me not! 
One whom thou darest not brave! unloose thy hold 


ANNA CORA MOWATT RITOHIE. lll 


Or dread his fury! Heaven protects me still! . 
[Lhe king releases her, awed by her manner. 

Thou art my sovereign—I a friendless subject— 

I woman and thou man !—my helplessness 

Was of itself a claim to thy protection— 

A claim thou hast rejected! Answer, king! 

Hast thou done right? Man, was it well to use 

Thy strength against my weakness? Thou art dumb! 

Thou canst not answer! King of France, I scorn thee! 

[Lait u. 1 2. 

: King. Why should I shrink from one so powerless ? 

And can it be that Virtue’s presence awes 

Me thus? That Virtue which no weapon needs 

Except its own resistless dignity ! 

She speaks, I’m hushed—she spurns me, and I cower— 

She leaves me, and I dare not follow her! 


MR. AND MBS. TIFFANY AT HOME. 


Tif. Your extravagance will ruin me, Mrs. Tiffany! 

Mrs. Tif. And your stinginess will ruin me, Mr. Tiffany! It is totally 
and toot a fate impossible to convince you of the necessity of keeping up 
appearances, There is a certain display which every woman of fashion is 
forced to make! 

Tif. And pray who made you a woman of fashion? ° 

Mrs. Tif. What a vulgar question! All women of fashion, Mr. 
Tiffany— . 

Tif. In this land are self-constituted, like you, madam—and fashion is 
- the cloak for more sins than charity ever covered! It was for fashion’s sake 
that you insisted upon my purchasing this expensive house—it was for 
fashion’s sake that you ran me in debt at every exorbitant upholsterer’s and 
extravagant furniture warehouse in the city—it was for fashion’s sake that 
you built that ruinous conservatory—hired more servants than they have 
persons to wait upon—and dressed your footman like a harlequin! 

Mrs. Tif. Mr. Tiffany, you are thoroughly plebeian, and insufferably 


18 ey WOMEN OF THE SOUTH. 


American, in your grovelling ideas! And pray what was the occasion of 
these very mal-appro-pos remarks? Merely because I requested a paltry 
fifty dollars to purchase a new style of head-dress—a bijou of an article just 
introduced in France. ‘ 

Tif. Time was, Mrs. Tiffany, when you manufactured your own French 
head-dresses—took off their first gloss at the public balls, and then sold 
them to your shortest-sighted customers, And all you knew about France 
or French either, was what you spelt out at the bottom of your fashion 
plates—but now you have grown so fashionable, forsooth, that you have 
forgotten how to speak your mother tongue! 

Mrs. Tif. Mr. Tiffany, Mr. Tiffany! Nothing is more positively vul- 
garian—more wnaristocratic than any allusion to the past! 

Tif. Why I thought, my dear, that aristocrats lived, principally, upon 
the past—and traded in the market of fashion with the bones of their 
ancestors for capital ? 

Mrs. Tif. Mr. Tiffany, such vulgar remarks are only suitable to the 
counting-house, in my drawing-room you should—— 

Tif. Vary my sentiments with my locality, as you change your manners 
with your dress / 

Mrs. Tif. Mr. Tiffany, I desire that you will purchase Count d’Orsay’s 
‘Science of Etiquette,” and learn how to conduct yourself—especially before 
you appear at the grand ball, which I shall give on Friday! 

Tif. Confound your balls, madam; they make foot-balls of my money, 
while you dance away all that I am worth! A pretty time to give a ball 
when you know that I am on the very brink of bankruptcy ! 

Mrs. Tif. So much the greater reason that nobody should suspect your 
circumstances, or you would lose your credit at once. Just at this crisis a 
ball is absolutely necessary to save your reputation! There is Mrs. Adolphus 
Dashaway—she gave the most splendid féte of the season—and I hear on 
very good authority that her husband has not paid his baker’s bill in three 
months. Then there was Mrs. Honeywood—— 

Tif. Gave a ball the night before her husband shot himself; perhaps you 
wish to drive me to follow his example ? [ Crosses to R. L. H. 

Mrs. Tif. Good gracious! Mr. Tiffany! how you talk! I beg you won't 
mention anything of the kind. I consider black the most unbecoming color, 
I’m sure Pve done all that I could to gratify you. There is that vulgar 


old torment, Trueman, who gives one the lie fifty times a day—haven’t [ 
been very civil to him? 





ANNA CORA MOWATT RITCHIE. 113 


Tif. Civil to his wealth, Mrs. Tiffany! I told you that he was a rich 
old farmer—the early friend of my father—my own benefactor—and that I 
had reason to think he might assist me in my present embarrassments. 
Your civility was bought, and, like most of your own purchases, has yet to 
be paid for. [ Crosses to RB. H. 

Mrs. Tif. And will be, no doubt! The condescension of a woman of 
fashion should command any price. Mr. Trueman is insupportably indeco- 
rous; he has insulted Count Jolimaitre in the most outrageous manner. If 
the count was not so deeply interested—so abimé with Seraphina, I am sure 
he would never honor us by his visits again! 

Tif. So much the better—he shall never marry my daughter!—I am 
resolved on that. Why, madam, I am told there is in Paris a regular matri- 
monial stock company, who fit out indigent dandies for this market. How 
do I know but this fellow is one of its creatures, and that he has come here 
to increase its dividends by marrying a fortune ? 

Mrs. Tif. Nonsense, Mr. Tiffany. The count—the most fashionable 
young man in all New York—the intimate friend of all the dukes and lords 
in Europe—not marry my daughter? Not permit Seraphina to become a 
countess? Mr. Tiffany, you are out of your senses! 

Tif. That would not be very wonderful, considering how many years I 
have been united to you, my dear. Modern physicians pronounce lunacy 
infectious! 


e* 


CATHARINE ANNE WARFTIELD. 


CaTHaRiInE Anne Warze was the daughter of Major Natha- 
niel A. Ware, of Natchez—formerly Secretary of State of the 
Mississippi Territory—and of Sarah Ellis, his wife. Her 
maternal grandfather, Capt. Charles Percy, of the British 
Navy, had retired from his profession on half pay, to settle on 
a grant of land conferred upon him by the crown, during the 
brief tenure of the Natchez country by Englend. Tis estate 
lay near [fort Adams, and he was widely known in the region 
in which he dwelt for his liberal hospitality and baronial style 
of living, so different from the primitive simplicity around him. 
He left behind him large possessions, to which his children 
succeeded. 

The marriage of Major Ware with Mrs. Ellis took place 
after the death of her father, and about the time of the termina- 
tion of the last British war. The pair resided at their country- 
seat near Natchez, during the brief period of their union. 

Of two children—the only offspring of this marriage—Catha- 
rine was the elder. By the birth of the younger daughter, the 
sisters were-deprived of a mother’s care, and the arduous duty 
of rearing and educating them devolved thenceforth solely on 
their father. . 

In order to conduct their education with greater advantage 
and facility, Major Ware sold his southern estates, and removed 
to Philadelphia. There, in connection with his own instruc- 


tion, he obtained masters for the lighter branches and accom- 
114 iW 


CATHARINE ANNE WARFIELD. age 


plishments, still adhering consistently, however, to his favorite 
plan of home education. Himself a man of rare scientific 
attainments, he was eminently qualified for this self-appointed 
task, which his want of other employment, and. singularly 
reserved nature, made valuable to him as a resource against 
“ennui, and as an outlet for feeling. 

It was a part of his plan to develop the minds of his 
children by travel; and a portion of each year was devoted to 
visiting different points of interest either in the northern or 
southern States. These journeys, together with his prejudices 
against schools—which necessarily limited the intimate com- 
panionship of his daughters to each other—may have had 
much to do with the development of the poetic faculty, which 
must, however, have been inherent in both, if we accept the 
ordinary theory of natural gifts. 

The elder daughter, Catharine, was married very young to 
Elisha Warfield, a gentleman of Lexington, Kentucky, and a 
member of a large and honorable family in that region. They 
continued to reside in this place until 1857, when circumstances 
induced them to remove to a farm in the vicinity of Louisville, 
Kentucky. ) 

The life of Mrs. Warfield has been almost wholly domestic 
and social, and uneventful save in its emotional character. Her 
literary tastes have found outlet chiefly in her intercourse with 
her father and sister, while they lived, and later, through the 
medium of two or three chosen papers. The turn of western 
society, however graceful and refined it may be, is opposed to 
the detail of letters; yet no people more cordially and appre- 
ciatively acknowledge literary prestige, whenever it is well 
founded. But the mind that finds its pleasure in literary 
pursuits, is scarcely satisfied with a mere recognition of the 
dignity of its vocation ; it demands a more near and immediate 
sympathy for the full growth and development of its powers. 


a 


116 WOMEN OF THE SOUTH. 


The poetic faculty, especially, requires the stimulus of high 
mental atmosphere and attrition, to bring it to periection. 
Mrs. Warfield may have felt the need of this incentive. 

A volume containing the joint productions of herself and 
sister, was published in 1843, under the title of “‘The Wite of 
Leon and Other Poems, by Two Sisters of the West.” It was 
made up of short pieces, written from time to time as the poetic 
element stirred, in ebb-tide intervals of social enjoyment, with- 
out a thought that they would ever come under the public eye. 
But, urged by literary friends, in whom they had implicit 
confidence, and more especially by their father, whom they 
could refuse nothing, they reluctantly consented to appear as 
authors. 

A most favorable reception of this volume by the press 
generally, and one or two critical journals in particular, 
encouraged them, in 1846, to publish a new collection of their 
writings, entitled “The Indian Chamber:-and Other Poems.” 
In this volume is discernible a marked advance in poetic range 
and depth, as well as facile and ingenious construction. Both 
collections indicate strong powers in reserve, and we naturally 
looked to these writers for something still higher in the way of 
poetic art. But, as the years rolled on, the younger sister— 
Mrs. Lee—passed with her varying lyre into the unseen world, 
and Mrs. Warfield, feeling, perhaps, that the utterances of 
maturer life need a broader and deeper channel than the tram- 
mels of verse afford, has recently “slanted off” into the ocean 
of prose—if rumor may be credited, is even now busy upon 
the pages of a romance, which promises very soon to make its 
mark upon the time. 

Among the poems of Mrs. Warfield, which we subjoin, 
“The Legend of the Indian Chamber” and “The Foe’s 
Return” are strongly dramatic, and reveal a tragic vein in 
the writer, of which she herself seems only half conscious. 


CATHARINE ANNE WARFIELD. - ay 


(Since this sketch was written, we have been favored 
with the proof-sheets of the first volume of Mrs. Warfield’s 
promised work. 

As one roaming over a goodly domain, whose value he has 
already gauged by visible stretches of hill, valley and wood: 
land, comes suddenly, in the heart of the latter, upon a rocky 
height looking far out upon loftier heights, and far down into 
wild ravines—so have we come upon these pages of the 
“ Household of Bouverie.” Here is a revelation of our author 
beside which the few words we had written of tragic power in 
reserve, seem tame and spiritless. We are glad, however, that 
‘such words stand in favor of any degree of insight on our part. 

If the last volume of this work bears out the promise of the 
first, it is one which “the world will not willingly let. die.” 
We doubt if any such book was ever written before by an 
American woman—a work so great in conception and so 
masterly in execution. 

It is refreshing to read something new in this book-plethoric 
age. ‘The Household of Bouverie” is a story projected from 





the writer’s own brain and being—a bold, sharp, live, magnetic 


creation. The several scenes in the mysterious chamber, the 


interviews between Lilian and Erastus Bouverie, with their 
pungent, pre-Raphaelite details, are pictures which, having 
once burned into the brain, can never be forgotten. A quaint- 
ness and originality remind one constantly of Hawthorne, yet 
belong wholly to Warfield. 

But we have no space for a full analysis of the sharp, 
imaginative power, the subtilized dablerve of this large-brained 
book. It will have its meed. We are only too happy to 
record it here—the master-piece of our author, and a worthy 


eriterion of her powers.) ; 


118 WOMEN OF THE SOUTH. 


THE HOUSE OF *BOUVERLE. 


My grandmother's spacious bed-room, ending in a half octagon, formed a 
central projection from the rear of the building. Three doors opened into 
this apartment from the sides that joined the house, and presented a stiff 
array, separated as they were by wide panels lined with mirrors. The cen- 
tral door opened with leaves into a square or rather oblong hall; the others, 
narrower and of simpler construction, gave into small rooms, evidently par- — 
titioned from the hall for convenience rather than symmetry, since the effect 
to the eye must have been far more liberal when the passage swept across 
the house, as I knew afterward it had originally done. One of these cham- 
bers, some twelve feet square only, yet lofty and well ventilated, had been . 
fitted up for me with a care and taste that left me nothing to regret, even 
when I compared it with the comfort and luxury of my former home. That 
which I supposed to correspond with it on the other side (which indeed 
the form and size of the mansion made evidently the case), was kept strictly 
locked; and at first I conceived it to be my grandmother’s oratory—recall- 
ing that of the mistress of Taunton Tower—or study, perhaps, where books 
and paintings, sacred to her eye alone, were cautiously concealed, as I had 
heard was the custom among the authors and artists of the world. 

But my grandmother, I soon discovered, was neither the one nor the 
other; and when I found how simple and even homely were the details of | 
her every-day life, I descended from my pedestal of fancy, and determined 
that this ‘‘ Blue Beard chamber,” so mysterious and inaccessible to me, was 
nothing more nor less than a shy woman’s dressing-room. <A deep reticence 
of nature did indeed underlie, in a very remarkable degree, the sparkling - 
cordiality of my grandmother’s manner. You stumbled on this constitutional 
or habitual reserve, accidentally sometimes, as you might do on a stone hid 
in a bed of flowers, and with something of the same sharp, sudden anguish ; 
but [am digressing to speak of this now. I wish to give at once, for reasons 
that will be plainer hereafter, as correct an idea as I know how to convey 
by words, of the construction of the house of Bouverie. 

The central building, as seen from without, built as it was of the dun- 
colored sandstone common to that region, consisted of two stories sur- 
mounted by a circular dome or cupola, A glitter on the roof of this super- 
structure, which was observable at some distance from the mansion, pointed 
to the idea of a skylight or glass framework, which might in the beginning 


CATHARINE ANNE WARFIELD. 119 


have lit the lower as well as the upper hall, if such indeed existed. No 
evidence that an upper floor formed any portion of the house was afforded 
by its internal construction; it contained no stairway, and the circular hall 
of entrance was ceiled over, so as to shut out any connection with that 
which might have been supposed to lie above it. 

The house was built in the outline of a disproportioned cross, in which 
the small square vestibule in front, my grandmother’s projecting chamber in 
the rear, and the two long wings, containing severally the gentlemen’s apart- 
ments and accommodations and offices for servants, represented the four 
limbs. The main building contained only, as far as the eye could see within, 
the central circular hall to which I have already referred, and one large 
room on either hand opening from this rotunda, and made square, or rather 
oblong, by means of triangular closets. The lateral hail, with its divided 
chambers, completed the quadrangle. 

I understood later how it was that after her husband’s death—one of 
violence and horror it was whispered—my grandmother had cut off all 
communication with those upper rooms which he had chiefly inhabited, 
associated in her mind as they were with bloodshed and self-slaughter; and 
how, as the dark legend crept stealthily around, that night after night he 
might still be heard walking their floors, and had even been seen descending 
the spiral stairs that linked one circular hall with the other, while the moon 
shone down through the great skylight, revealing to the startled watchers 
his ghastly lineaments and spectral form—she had, in the desperation of her 
fear and agony, sealed up forever those haunted and accursed chambers. 
For this purpose the stairway had been removed, and the space between the 
two halls floored and ceiled. This was done with an expedition that made 
food for conjecture in the neighborhood, having its origin, doubtless, in the 
almost frenzied terror of her own sensations, that caused her to spare neither 
expense nor urgency to have her alterations executed with dispatch. The 
workmen who performed this task were summoned from a distant town, and 
spoke in a foreign tongue. They came and went like shadows; and in this 
manner she evaded, as much as possible, the neighborhood gossip and 
espionage which must otherwise have so annoyed her in her crushed condi- 
tion, For, at the time all this was done, my grandfather’s fearful death was 
recent; and the same artisans who removed the stairs, and sealed away from 
sight and access those abhorred upper apartments, placed the simple marble 
obelisk which bore his name, above his grave in the ¢edar grove. 

A great lamp swung in the centre of that circular hall now, where the 


‘ 


120 WOMEN OF THE SOUTH. 


sunlight and moonlight had once streamed freely down from the transparent 
roof; and the restless ghost might walk forever in those large dim chambers, 
with their nailed-up windows, and disused and moldering furniture, and dis- 
quiet no one. 

, Not one article was touched or brought away, Miss Lilian, that ever 
belonged to him,” added my informant in low whispered tones, the old 
demure, and yet gossiping woman who assisted at my toilet, and who had 
lived with my grandmother and cared for her since her birth; ‘not one 
article, lest a curse might cleave to it and fall on ws ; and still he may be heard 
at times—don’t be frightened, Miss Lilian!—walking, walking, the livelong 
night, the livelong day even, as though no rest were granted him in the 
other world, who took no rest in this.” 

I had hidden my face on Dame Bianca’s arm as she proceeded in her 
vague narration, thrilled by a momentary terror, Now I looked up and was 
annoyed by the expression of her countenance as my sudden glance fell upon 
it. She seemed to be enjoying the emotion with which she had inspired me, 
and a furtive and half-suppressed smile lurked on her lips and in her eyes 
that shook my confidence in the sincerity of her representations, 

“She is trying to fool me,” I thought, ‘with this ghost-story, and to 
make a coward of me; but I know there is nothing of the kind.” 

And nerved by this sudden conviction, I proceeded to question her with 
more coolness and sagacity than she could have expected from one evidently 
so impressed with her narration a moment before. 

‘““What made my grandfather so restless, Dame Bianca?” I asked. ‘‘ Was. 
he unhappy and wicked, or only busy?” 

‘All, child, all! wretched enough, I daresay, when he stopped to think 
of hismisdeeds—and busy always as any working-bee in summer-time. Busy 
with hand and brain, with pen and sword, with drug and pistol, reading 
and thinking, plotting and contriving; and trampling over every one that 
stood in his way, without fear or mercy. But he was a great gentleman 
after all, more like a prince than a common man it appeared to me, and so 
grand in his ways, that no man could ever take a liberty with him, not even 
the old master, Ursa Bouverie, that had no respect for any one else, and 
trod on human feelings as a horse treads on grass. Old ‘ Ursa Major,’ they 
call him hereabouts ; but I never could see the sense of putting his title last; 
‘Major Ursa’ would have sounded better, I think, Miss Lilian?” 

‘“Why, that means the great bear, Bianca,” I said, laughing heartily at 
the conceit, and entirely roused from the horrors of her narrative; forget- 


CATHARINE ANNE WARFIELD. 121 


ting, too, in my amusement, the pique her expression of triumph had occa- 
sioned me when she felt sure of my credulity. ‘‘An excellent title, I have 
no doubt, for the cross old man—Ursa! what a funny name for a Christ- 
jane 

“He was no Christian, Miss Lilian,” she said, gravely; ‘“‘ but a dreadful 
old heathen as the Lord ever permitted to live! I never knew how it was 
that your grandfather crept into his feelings so toward the last, unless it 
was’’— and she hesitated, then digressed abruptly. ‘‘‘She shall have a 
home of her own, if my act can give it to her,’ I heard him say one night 
about a week before he died, when your grandfather—his nephew, you 
_ know, child, he was—was talking with him about making his will in the 
library, and he slammed his hand down just so on the table till it shook 
again! ‘Shall I insert the clause now, uncle?’ I heard Mr. Erastus Bouverie 
say in his soft, sweet tones, more like trickling water or falling silver than 
any other sound I ever heard. ‘Or shall it be done later ? 

““* You need not trouble yourself about it at ali, Erastus,’ the old man 
answered; ‘ after all your objections, it might give you too much pain; or, 
maybe, you might accidentally leave a flaw!’ and old ‘Ursa Major’ laughed 
long and loud.” 

‘Oh, Bianca, that was very insulting to say to his nephew, I think.” 

‘Not for him, Miss Lilian, who never had a civil word for any one ex- 
cept Miss Camilla; but her he fairly worshipped. Anyway, the look he got 
that night from Mr. Erastus would have killed any one else outright. Few 
people could stand before your grandfather’s eyes, I tell you, my child; but 
he said nothing on this occasion, but went on writing. I have heard them 
say that knew his disposition best, that he never justified himself in any way 
but one.” 

** And that one, Bianca?” 

‘‘ Never mind, Miss Lilian, what that was, it was a dreadful way at the 
best; but as I was saying, he kept on writing in silence. The old man did 
not live long afterward ; he died suddenly, you know, but he did not forget 
to add the clause, and that was the way your grandmother came to own 
Bouverie.” | 

‘* But where were you all the time, Bianca, to see and hear so much? 
Were you hid away to spy and to listen, Bianca? Oh, I hope not, for the 
credit of our house.” 

** Busy in the next room, child, and the door ajar between; but if you 
hold such suspicions, you may learn the rest for yourself.” And the injured 


L222 WOMEN OF THE SOUTH. 


dame drew up her slight, erect figure in an attitude that indicated fixed 
resolution ; nor could I hope to learn from any other source the unfinished 
history I burned to know. | 

A little scene had been enacted before this conversation occurred with 
Bianca, which taught me the necessity of self-control in the household of 
Bouverie, both as to question and remark. I could not venture, after this, - 
to inquire of any member of the family concerning my grandfather’s fate or 
the events of his life, in view of the lesson that my own indiscretion had 
taught me. 

It was on the day after my arrival that, sitting at the supper-table, dur- 
ing a long pause in the conversation, and while my grandmother was 
especially engaged with her coffee-urn, I was suddenly shaken by one of 
those unseasonable fits of laughter common to excitable children. 

‘‘ What amuses you, Lilian?”, asked Dr. Quintil. ‘‘ Come, give us your 
merry thought, and we will pluck it together.” 

“Oh, Dr. Quintil, I was only thinking how funny it was—and I never 
thought of it until this minute, which makes it funnier still—that my uncle 
Jasper has never spoken one word to me since I came to Bouverie! Not 
one word, Mister Jasper, have you said to your niece since she came to live 
with you, either for good or for bad,” and I shook my finger playfully at 
him across the table. 

He gazed at me a moment earnestly, and then suffered his forehead to 
droop into his hands. Had I offended him? I looked anxiously at Dr. 
Quintil; he, too, was pale and grave, and averted his eyes from mine. 
My grandmother alone retained her self-possession. 

‘““My ‘child,” she said, ‘in this house, above all others, learn to be 
discreet. It is our misfortune to be an afflicted household—Jasper has never 
spoken.” 

I dropped the untasted morsel, and, in a passion of grief and mortification, 
I slid from the table, and lay with my face on the floor. I. was raised by 
kindly hands. Jasper held me in his arms. 

‘“Oh, what*have [ done!” I said; “I did.not know—indeed I did not 
know—that one might hear, and still be dumb. Poor Uncle Jasper! Can 
you forgive me?” 

Words never spoke as his eyes spoke to me then. I have since believed 
that in the spirit-world there will be no need of speech, but that light, 
shining from each heavenly visage, shall reveal whatever the immortal 
essence seeks to communicate, and words be put away with other bonds of 


CATHARINE ANNE WARFIELD. 1233 


flesh. He held me to his bosom long, for my feelings, when once vividly 
aroused, were not easily consoled to quiet again; and they told me that on 
that home of peace I sobbed myself to rest. 

Jasper—my Jasper—from that hour I loved thee as entirely as I shall 
ever do when we meet at the feet of God! 


GENIUS. 


Jasper usually sat in the same room in which I was taught, pursuing his 
separate studies, and entirely engrossed by the volumes he pored over, to the 
exclusion of voices and other disturbing causes. He had, indeed, that power 
of application in an uncommon degree, which, by some French authors, Mon- 
tesquieu, I believe, has been used as a definition of genius. Ifthe meaning 
be extended so as to cover the ground of the application of knowledge after 
its acquirement—the result of application of mind—to all occasions of life, 
this definition may be found to possess merit, and even originality, and to 
answer as well as most that have been accepted as expositions of that Protean 
gift of which Prometheus was the antique type. 

At noon, when study hours were over for the day, I sought my grand- 
mother’s chamber, and found her usually seated at her work by the large 
window I have before described; while the little repast of fruit, or cake, or 
conserves, she never forgot to provide for me, was placed on the table by her 
side. When I had partaken of this, I was free to go, to ride my pony, to 
walk, to swing, and gather flowers in the fine season; or in winter, to 
exercise in the basement below, kept warm for the benefit of the flowering 
plants it sheltered, or to pore over the volumed lore of the library, until our 
late dinner hour arrived, or to play and sing at my piano, unquestioned and 
unnoticed ; for my grandmother knew better than most persons, how impor- 
tant to the growth and dignity of a child’s character, is a certain freedom of 
action and solitary self-reliance. 

I still look back to those lonely hours, as the basis of much that is strong 
and resolute in my character, and as the promoters, if not originators, of 
that poetic faculty which, however limited in its results, has been my chief 
comfort and resource in life—a faculty I would not surrender for Victoria’s 
crown, were I obliged to fill its place with commonplace and inanity, and 
which, more than all else, has reconciled me to life, and assured me of the 
certainty of a glorious immortality. 

A. great orator has lately in his eulogium of the most distinguished states- 


124 WOMEN OF THE SOUTH. 
\ 

man of any age, in his zeal for those qualities which peculiarly appertain to the 
character of the august subject of his debate, levelled cold and cruel blows at 
the peculiar organization to which we give the name of ‘“‘genius.”” When 
God takes back his gift of flowers, limits sunshine, wipes out the rainbow, 
dashes from the shell and gem their lustre, and from the bird the hues of his 
glorious plumage, replacing these with cold, utilitarian coloring; when the 
love of the beautiful—the germ of all poetic power—ceases to lift the human 
heart to Him who adorned the world with such exquisite consideration for 
this master passion of his noblest creatures—including, as it does, love, 
heroism, religion, glory,—then, and not until then, shall I believe that genius 
is superfluous ; and that in the eyes of the Creator it is of little or no avail! 

Dr. Kane, sailing on the lonely arctic seas, renders meet tribute to the 
comfort that genius gives him; I use the word advisedly ! 

“None,” says he, ‘‘who have not read the poems of Tennyson, under 
circumstances of isolation like those that surrounded me, can form any idea 
of the consolation to be derived from their perusal.” 

These are not his exact words—I do not own these volumes—but any one 
can find the passage I refer to with such a clew. Following out the impulse 
of his gratitude, he calls by the name of his favorite poet, the wondrous 
column of green basalt that stands forth as if made by the hand of human 
art, bare and terrific even in its strange solitary grandeur, from the cold, 
grey rocks around it, and looms above the lonely glassy ocean of that Arctic 
zone. This he calls ‘‘Tennyson’s Monument.” What prouder tribute has 
poet ever received ? 

Dear as were those solitary hours to me, and life-giving as they proved 
themselves, the tendency of my nature was essentially social and loyal; and, 
had I been permitted to do so, I would have attached myself warmly and 
entirely to my grandmother’s society, and even service. But, while with 
one hand she drew me to her, with the other she put me away—gently, but 
no less decidedly. | 

Her conversation was especially delightful to me—so animated, so 
varied, so natural, so full of detail, that it was like reading a pleasant book 
to listen to it. One is said, I know, oftener in derision than in praise, to 
‘talk like a book;” but this is a prejudice derived from old times, when 
books were oftenest prating and pedantic oracles. Who would not like to 
hear such conversation daily, as we meet with in the pages of many modern 
novels? Terse, sparkling, and graphic illustrations of nature itself, compared 
to which all ancient dialogues seem flat and affected! 


¢ CATHARINE ANNE WARFIELD. 124 


RELIGION. 


Temperament has, after all, more to do with religion than theologiars 
are willing to acknowledge, and there*certainly was in my very veins some 
principle antagonistic in its nature to Catholicism. I was made, I think, of 
those elements from which new churches, new forms of government have 
sprung. It was natural to me to investigate motives, and demand reasons 
for action; and if I was a poor logician, I was, at all events, no sophist, no 
self-deluder; what I believed was a part of my own being. 

I have heard people talk of choosing a religion, as they would select a 
garment, and marvelled at the fallacy! Oh, who can choose a conviction; 
or who would not, if this were possible, believe in the comforting doctrines 
of the universalist or the epicurean ? 

No! religion is made of sterner stuff! We cannot banish or deny the 
presence of evil; it is here—we can only contend against it, with what 
limited power we have, and what divine assistance we receive. We cannot 
shut out the bitter belief in the vast inequality of human lots, prate as 
philosophers may of compensation on earth; nor fail to perceive the absence 
of all justice in the visible dispensations of Providence. Else would no vir- 
tuous man go down in the fiery sea of sorrow and adversity; else would no 
icy-hearted villain prosper! That these things are, none can deny—that 
noble lives are failures, that base ones are crowned with success ; let Kossuth 
—let Louis Napoleon testify, for want of fitter examples, known to all men! 
But we need not stop with public,characters like these. In every sphere of 
life there are innumerable instances of this kind, and when we try to per- 
suade ourselves that there is no truth in the dark doctrines of fate and 
election, let us reflect on these manifest inconsistencies, before our daily 
eyes. 

Yet who wants to believe in these doctrines—who would incline to it if 
it were possible to waive them away by any process of human reasoning or 
self-deception! And why should any belief, after all, however gloomy and 
oppressive in its tendency, make us, for one moment, falter in our faith in, 
and perfect love for God? 

For the future is in his hand of which we know nothing now, and the 
instinct is in all hearts, to trust in its mighty developments, its compensa- 
tions, its unerring fidelity to, and correspondence with the past, so that they 
may be said to represent the two scales of a balance—one before us, with its 


26 WOMEN OF THE SOUTH. . ‘ 


heavy and uncomprehensive measure of good or ill—the other) with its 
unseen freight far in eternity. 

Yet happy those who, closing their eyes on its complicated inconsistency, 
and seeing its sublime comfort, and loving charity alone, bow down and 
worship at the foot of the Catholic cross! Happy those who deem that sin 
can be forgiven by proxy, and the gates of heaven entered by déath-bed 
repentance! These are the beings whom the rapture of heaven possesses 
even on earth, and who bear most often, lightly the burden of sin and sorrow 
so crushing to tke sterner thinkers. Nature had never intended me to be 
one of these. 


THE SECRET CHAMBER AND ITS OCCUPANT. 


In the centre of the room stood a ponderous rosewood bedstead, very 
dark from age, and shaped like a lengthened throne, and so placed as to give 
its inmate whatever advantage of light and air existed in that dusky 
atmosphere. . 

He lay on his snow-white bed, propped with pillows scarce paler than 
himself, that remarkable man, whose face seemed to have become familiar to 
me in one brief gaze of terror and mystery. He was sleeping when my 
grandmother led me to his couch, and with noiseless step and lifted finger 
impressed on me the necessity of silence—sleeping the tranquil sleep of ill- 
ness merged into debility. 


” she whispered, ‘if not 


“Dr. Quintil pronounces this a saving slumber, 
interrupted; yet if any observable change, occurs during its continuance you 
must not hesitate to call him. He lies at present on the sofa in the opposite 
room, having watched all night; observe our patient closely, Lilian; I con- 
fide all to you!” 

She withdrew, and I sat close by his side, watching a sleep that closely 
simulated that of death itself—so profound, so tranquil was it—and poring 
on his face, as though it were a book opened before me. An expression of 
tender repose (if I may so express it) lingered over the thin, straight fea- 
tures, almost transparent from disease. 

The grey hair, singularly indicative of strength and vitality, and bearing 
unmistakable traces of its original color, lay loose and wavy on the pillow. 
Long as it had seemed before, it had probably grown to an unusual length 
during his sickness, and now imparted an almost womanish character to his 
face and head. 


CATHARINE ANNE WARFIELD. 127 


His slender and elegantly formed hands were closed lightly on his breast, 
as those of the dead are often placed. A white napkin lay at his side, folded 
and glossy; but streaked and dappled with blood fresh from his bleeding 
lungs—a few Strombio roses were thrown carelessly by it, as if dropped 
from nerveless fingers. 

_ Beside him, on a small table, was a flask of ice-water, a goblet of antique 
form, some grapes on a plateau of fine china, and a vial of pyramidal shape, 
filled with a liquid of such brilliant amber-color, that it seemed almost to 
diffuse rays of light around it. “ 

During that long watch, my eyes became frequently riveted on this vial, 
and attracted by its lambent lustre, I raised it between them and the light, 
so as to scrutinize the contents. I saw with an almost fascinated interest 
what appeared to be a hair of gold, waving to and fro in the liquid like 
& miniature serpent. Now rising to the top in spiral lines, as if trying to 
escape from its confinement—then collapsing in a ring to the bottom of the 
wide-based vial. 

On the bottle a label was pasted, on which was inscribed in small, clear 
Italian characters, the ‘elixir of gold.” This, then, was that marvellous 
remedy, of which I had recently heard, for the first time, with more of inte- 
rest than faith I must confess! Here, then, was the realization of what had 
appeared to me but a mere fable! 

A gentleman with whom we had met in travelling, a peculiar and strik- 
ing person, whose name and mien indicated a foreign origin, had told Dr. 
Quintil a story in my presence, illustrative of the immediate efficacy of this 
medicine. 

A child lay dying in a peasant’s house, in which a horseman sought tem- 
porary refuge from the storm which raged without. Hope was over, and 
the death-struggle approached, the eyes were glazed and half-rolled back in 
their orbits—cold dew stood on the clammy face, the power of speech, of 
deglutition itself was gone, when the stranger asked permission to pour a 
few drops from a small vial he drew from his bosom into the parted lips of 
the child. The request was granted, and at short intervals he was allowed 
to repeat the experiment. | 

The subtle drug seemed to insinuate itself into the system without the 
assistance of the epiglottis; but, for a time, exerted little opposing influence 
against the power of the conqueror. He. described the marvellous and sud- 
den change that at last occurred—the returning hues of life, the renewed 
intelligence of the eye, the strength restored as if by magic. In an hour 


128 WOMEN OF THE SOUTH. 


later the child sat up in bed and called for food, and the next day rose to its 
feet convalescent! Such was the tale. ' 

Something in the graphic manner of the narrator left the impression on 
my mind, that he himself was the benefactor thus referred to, and I smiled 
at the faith the empiric lent to the work of his own hands—doubting not 
for a moment, that the recovery he described had taken place from natural 
causes. 

And now my incredulity seemed reasonably confirmed. Here was a 
dying man (he certainly seemed so to me) with this wondrous yet unavailing 
remedy in reach ! 

Yet what a radiantly beautiful fluid it was! 

Had it been called ‘‘essence of sunshine,” it would not have surprised 
me, for inherent radiance it certainly seemed to contain. I had just time to 
set the vial down, which I had raised between my vision and the line of light 
that came through the slightly opened door, when he awoke, coughing 
violently and fixed his glittering eyes full on my face. 

Aroused by the shrill summons, or perhaps already watching for such a 
signal, Dr. Quintil came almost instantly to his assistance, and sustained him 
in his arms; at the same time whispering to me to withdraw from the cham- 
ber, and remain without while the paroxysm lasted. 

Fabius had arranged my breakfast in the hall, on that great round table, 
from which books and papers were now cleared away, that stood beneath 
the skylight, and it was truly acceptable, for the day was on the tide, and I 
had not tasted food since the previous evening; I was half famished; yet I 
had hardly time to swallow a few mouthfuls, and drink my coffee, when 
Dr. Quintil called me from within. . 

I returned greatly agitated. He was awake; he would speak to me. 
He, my mother’s father! It was like the recognition of spirits in another 
world—ineffable, overpowering. 

I advanced to the foot of the bed, and stood thrilled, yet mutely before 
him. 

‘‘Come nearer, my love,” he said, extending one long, thin hand to me, 
that fell in the next instant almost lifeless beside him. ‘ Nearer, that I may 
discern your features distinctly. Lilian, the child of Morna,” he murmured, 
“the daughter of my child!” 

‘Even so, grandfather,” I said, as solemnly as ever a devotee gave back 
‘‘ Amen” to prayer and kneeling. I bowed my head on his nerveless hand, 
and my nature took on her new allegiance. 


CATHARINE ANNE WARFIELD. 129 


The very sound of his voice—clear, sweet, slightly tremulous at times, 
infinitely pathetic in its quality—vibrated through my whole being, as no 
sound, whether of speech or music, had ever done before. I felt within me 
then the power, won from the electric shock, of the clashing chains of kin- 
dred in our veins; perchance to serve him faithfully from that hour with 
any sacrifice that he might see fit to demand, or that I might find it possible 
to make. 

Yet, why was this? Others as nearly related to me had awakened no 
parallel enthusiasm in my soul. I have done wrong perhaps in thinking that 
it was the power of blood that stirred me thus. Was it not rather some fine 
magnetic influence totally independent of mere relationship, that rendered 
every faculty of my being as responsive to his will as the keys of the lute to 
the touch of the master player? 

I know not how long I continued kneeling and praying silently beside 
him—if prayer might be called that almost unformed communing of my soul 
with God—more a mood than an utterance. He was now forbidden to 
speak; yet when I arose and stood beside him again, his beaming eye and 
smile were more eloquent than words. They seemed to say: 

‘** Welcome, my love, to this solitary life of mine, art thou, as morning to 
the sleepless, or showers to the sear grass. Henceforth thy being shall be 
blended with my own, and the shadow that envelops me fall over thee also, 
even as from thy young existence, some light and joy shall gild the clouds 
of mine. For of this nature is the mighty and inscrutable bond of 
blood.” 

Such, to my excited imagination, seemed the meaning, his mute but qui- 
vering features sought to convey ; such the impression my mind received 
from their expression—never to leave it more. 

Yet again I question, why was this? 


ELIXIR OF GOLD AND BLOOD. 


He held my wrists in his grasp, silently for atime. I felt that he was 
counting my pulses. 

‘““There is health enough in these young veins,” he said, “‘to justify me 
in making the request I have sent for you to prefer. The rich life-blood 
abounds here even to superfluity. Lilian, you have blood, and to spare.”” 

“Blood, grandfather!’ I repeated, struggling slightly to withdraw my 

9 


130 WOMEN OF THE SOUTH. 


arm. ‘You do not want my blood, I hope? Is he insane, after all?’ was 
the rapid thought that swept through me, ‘and is this 4 part of the past, so 
long esteemed a crime, mere madness at last ?” 

He relinquished his hold immediately, and said, with evident mortifica- 
tion: ‘ You surely do not think I mean to harm you, Lilian ?” 

I stood before him with my head cast down, as the guilty stand before 


their accusers. 
‘No, no indeed,” I murmured, ‘“‘I know you would not harm me, unless 





—unless ” 

“Unless I were mad, Lilian; is that what you would say 2?” he asked, still 
surveying me with his piercing, reproachful eyes; then waiting a moment 
for areply, which never came, he added, “you are right there; but I am 
not mad—have absolutely no capacity for madness, child. Listen, I only 
ask you for one cup of that generous blood, that flowed from my veins in the 





“beginning.” 

‘This is a strange fancy of yours, grandfather—a horrible fancy. Do you 
drink blood? Are you a vampire?” I tried to smile, but shuddered in the 
attempt. ‘‘I must not seem afraid,” I thought, “for if this be mania, such 
evidence would increase it; and yet how can Fabius seem so unconcerned, 
if he meditates any horrible thing? Perhaps they are going to unite and 
sacrifice me.” 

In spite of my better resolution, I felt myself trembling at the thought of 
playing the part of an unwilling Iphigenia. Fortunately, this passed 
unobserved. | 

“Hear me dispassionately,” he said; ‘then decide as you will. I ask 
your assistance in the preparation of a remedy, on which my feeble life 
depends. I have been in the habit of drawing from my own veins, or those 
‘of Fabius, the required amount of fluid to complete my preparation ; but since 
my long illness, my strength has failed. His, too, declines, and unless the 
properties of perfect health be found in the blood thus used, it is of little or 
no avail. To-day I threw three hundred sovereigns, the last of my treasure, 
in the crucibles. All this will be wasted, unless I obtain the necessary 
ingredient wherewith to divide the smoldering mass from the ethereal spirit 
that makes the elixir.” 

‘“ Why not usesthe blood of a lamb, or of a goat, grandfather; or beef’s 
blood, as I have heard they do in sugar refineries? These can be easily pro- 
cured, and human nature spared the horror of such an experiment.” 

‘Because the chemical affinities are all wanting in these, that success 


CATHARINE ANNE WARFIELD. 131 


depends on; but, Lilian, I will not urge you further; { will not ask again, 
even to save my own life, for a gill of the blood I gave you.” 

I was nerved to sudden determination by these words. 

‘‘Be sure you take no other, grandfather,” I said, hazarding a feeble jest 
to raise my own courage. ‘Spare my De Courcy blood, I implore you;” 
and, baring my arm, I stretched it forth, and turned away. 

A small porcelain urn was brought forward, and Fabius breathed a vein 
with a dexterity that manifested practice. Ihad just begun to feel slightly 
faint and giddy, when my grandfather staunched the orifice, and bound my 
arm himself with bandages, in readiness for the occasion; first touching the 
wounded vein with a liquid which removed soreness from the arm, and 
prevented all subsequent inconvenience. 

‘* Aye, Lilian, this will do,” he said; “this young and ruddy blood is 
what Ineeded. Do you know, child, that the time is not far distant when 
he who can afford to purchase such relays for his veins weekly, or even 
monthly, may put off death indefinitely? The surgeon will let young blood 
into the old man’s veins then, as easily as the barber trims his beard now, 
and it will be a part of the received hygeian system to do this, indispensable 
even to the toilet of every sexagenarian.” 

He held the all but transparent cup between his eyes and the brilliant 
lamps. “It is perfect,” continued he, ‘every globule round as a drop of 
rain, I fear I have not spared your De Courcy blood, as you requested, how- 
ever. I think I discern a mixture; but come, you shall see the charm work. 
Medea was a bungler compared with Erastus Bouverie!” 

He led me to the crucible, red hot over its charcoal furnace, and, lifting 
the lid, showed me the dull, yellow, molten mass within. 

‘* Now look, Lilian.” 

He took from the marble slab, or counter, as I have elsewhere called it, 
a vial of white liquid, which, when opened, emitted the odoriferous, and, to 
me, grateful and reviving smell of almonds, and bending over the crucible, 
poured in carefully about half the contents of the bottle, quickly replacing 
the close-fitting glass stopper. 

Instantly the seething mass stood still, a few large bubbles rose, flashed, 
dispersed, and a dull violet flame seemed to flit and flicker over the surface. 

‘‘Now, Lilian, all is ready. Look attentively and behold the crisis!” 
His face was rigid as steel as he dashed in the blood. 

The flame died out, the whole mass seemed to shudder and recoil . then 
separate as instantaneously as I have seen the curd and whey of milk divide 


132 WOMEN OF THE SOUTH. 


under the action of an acid, or, to use a grandiose comparison, as earth and 
sea might have divided in the beginning of time. A mass of substance was 
precipitated to the bottom of the crucible, and oh, wondrous vision! in the 
clear, amber-colored fluid above, myriads of tiny serpents of flashing light 
seemed gliding, quivering, coiling in ring after ring, and springing in spiral 
movements to the surface! . 7 

‘Tt is the vital principle at work,” he said, in suppressed tones, “ electri- 
fying the duller agent. The combination will be more than usually perfect. 
The blood of genius works well! Fabius, extinguish the fires.” His voice 
was low and husky. 

He spoke no more until this was done; then steadily and slowly, and 
with every nerve strained to its fullest tension in the anxiety of the moment 
—for much depended on the accuracy of this movement—he poured into a 
silver bowl the wonderful elixir, preparatory to sealing it in crystal vials. 


LEGEND OF THE INDIAN CHAMBER. 
PART FIRST. 


‘“* Basit! set my house in order, 
For, when I return to-day, 
I shall bring with me a stranger, 
Tarrying on his homeward way. 
Open fiing the Inp1An CHAMBER, 
And the arras free from mold ; 
There array a goodly banquet, 

Such as cheered my sires of old; 
When, from chase or war returning, 
Dukes and princes of my line, 
From the evening till the morning, 

Filled the cup and drained the wine.” 


** Master, in thy lordly castle 
There are many halls of pride, 
Where no damps the walls encumber— 
Where no spells of gloom abide. 


CATHARINE ANNE WARFIELD. 


In the gallery of the Titans, 
In the hall of Count Lothaire, 

In the grand saloon of columns, 
Better had ye banquet there. 

But the dreary Indian Chamber, 
Oh! bethink you, master mine— 

There have slept, in mortal slumber, 
All the princes of your line, 


“ There the mourners ever gather, 
Forth to bear the noble dead— 
There you saw your stately father, 
And your noble brother laid ; 
There, save in these times of anguish, 
Never, since my life began, 
Entered in a ray of sunlight, 
Or the step of mortal man. 

And the sounds of mystic meaning— 
Master! need I speak of these ?— 
Which from that lone eastern chamber 
Meet the ear—the spirit freeze!” 


With a brow of haughty pallor, 
Straight the Baron turned away, 
In a scornful accent saying, 

‘Tis my mandate, slave! obey.” 
Then in haste, with gloomy aspect, 
Forth he went upon his steed, 
Rushing headlong on his pathway, 

Like an evil spirit freed. 
And with sad and stricken spirit, 
Basil watched his lord depart, 
. While a dark and evil omen, 
Hearse-like, pressed upon his heart. 


Long he lingered at the portal, 
Bound as with a gloomy dream ; 
Long he looked upon the landscape, 

Which before him ceased to seem ; 


133 


134 WOMEN OF THE SOUTH. 


Then, with low and prayerful mutterings, 
Shaking oft his tresses grey, 

Clasping oft his withered fingers, 

* Basil went upon his way. 

Passed he up the ancient stairway, 
Groped he through the echoing aisle, 

Where, to seek the olden chapel, 
Oft had passed a kingly file. 


Climbed he the remotest turret 
Of that castle grand and vast, 
And before the Indian Chamber 
Wearily he paused at last; 
Yes, a moment there he faltered, 
-He who oft had stood the shock 
Of the hottest, fiercest battle, 
Firm as a primeval rock. 
On the bolt his fingers trembled, 
Scarcely could their strength unclose 
The immense and ponderous fastening, 
Rusted by its long repose. 


Yet a moment—yet a moment, 
Ere the door was open flung, 
Paused the old and awe-struck Basil, 
Fervent aves on his tongue. 
As if Heaven his prayer had answered, 
Peace and comfort round him stole, 
And a cali and lofty courage 
Nerved his hand and filled his soul. 
With a slight, yet sudden effort, 
_ Back the oaken door he threw, 
And upon the darkened threshold 
Stood the fearful place to view. 


Dark and dreary was that chamber, 
Which in lengthened gloom appeared, 

With its dark and mystic arras, 
Wrought in symbols wild and weird. 


CATHARINE ANNE WARFIELD. 


Life-like were the gorgeous figures, 
Giant-like they seemed to loom 

In the dim, imperfect twilight 
Of that long-forsaken room. 

Warily the old man entered— 
With a solemn step he trod 

Through the drear and dark apartment, 
Trusting to his Father’s God. 


In the ample hearth he kindled 
Brands that, in departed days, 


Quenched and blackened, had been left there— 
Strange and ghostly seemed their blaze. 


And upon the marble table 
Ranged the regal store of plate, 
And arrayed the goodly banquet, 
As became his master’s state : 
Urn and vase and chalice brimming 
With the floods of ruby wine, 
As beseemed the dukes and princes 
Of that mighty Norman line. 


Then he silently betook him 

To his first appointed task— 
Wiping from the ancient arras 

Many a spot of mold and mask. 
But the dark and loathing horror, 

It befits me not to speak, 
Which, while still his task pursuing, 


Shook his hand, and blanched his cheek; 


For he could not but remember 
How, in long departed years, 
Woven was that wondrous fabric 
By the spells of Indian seers. 


Wrought with themes of Hindoo story, 
Life-like, in their coloring bold, 
Yemen’s fall, and Vishnu’s glory, 
Was that arras quaint and old; 


135 


136 


WOMEN OF THE SOUTH. 


Juggernaut’s remorseless chariot, 
Funeral pyre, and temple proud, 
Bungalow, and Rajah’s palace, 

With their strange and motley crowd; 
Jungle, low, and flower-crowned river, 
Dancing girls, with anklets bright ; 
These, like gorgeous dreams of fever, 

Crowded on the gazer’s sight. 


And the long and twisting serpents, 
And the tigers crouching, grim, 

Seemed the dark and fearful guardians 
Of that Indian Chamber dim. 

To the simple, earnest spirit 
Of the old and faithful man, 

For a Christian hand to touch them, 
Was to merit Christian ban. 

Saint and martyr inly calling, 
Still he wrought his master’s will, 

When a terror more appalling, 
Caused his very veins to chill. 


In that dreary Indian Chamber, 
Strangely grand and desolate, 

With its long and hearse-like hangings, 
Stood a plumed bed of state. 

Closed around with solemn mystery 
As a kingly purple pall, 

High it towered, a silent history 
Of departed funeral. 

And with eyes amazed—distended 
Py their dread and spell-bound look— 

Basil gazed in stony horror, 
Lo! the trailing curtains shook! 


And a groan of hollow anguish 

From the close-drawn hangings broke, 
As if one for ages sleeping 

Suddenly to torture woke— 


CATHARINE ANNE WARFIELD. 


God of terror! slowly parted 
By a wan and spectral hand, 
Back were drawn the purple curtains— 
Back, as with a spirit wand. 
And a face of ghostly beauty, 
With its dark and streaming hair, 
And its eyes of ghoul-like brightness, 
Seemed upon his sense to glare. 


How in that terrific moment 
Basil’s senses kept their throne, 
Is alone to God and angels 
In its wondrous mystery known. 
How he gathered faith and firmness 
To uplift his aged hand, 
And address the disembodied, 
Man may never understand. 
Save that in the ghostly features 
Still a semblance he descried, 
To the high and lovely lady, 
Who had been his master’s bride. 


‘In the name of God the Father, 
In the name of God the Son, 
In the name of all good angels, 
Speak to me unearthly one. 
Answer why, from wave returning, 
Moanest thou in anguish here; 
Surely for some holy purpose 
Thou art suffered to appear. 
If for evil, I defy thee, 
By the cross upon my breast, 
By my faith in life eternal, 
And my yearning hope for rest.” 


Then with moveless lips the Phantom 
Spake in low and hollow tones, 

As if shaped to words and meaning 
Were the night-wind’s hollow moans, 


137 


138 


WOMEN OF THE SOUTH. 


** Basil! darkly was I murdered 
Sailing on the River Rhine, . 
By thy harsh and ruthless master, 
Last of an illustrious line. 
False the tale his lips have uttered, 
False the tears his eyes have shed— 
I was hurled upon the water 
With the marks of murder red. 


“* Basil! thou art good and faithful, 
Thee I charge, by hopes divine, 
With a hundred chanted masses, 
Shrive my soul by Mary’s shrine. 
None shall stay thy holy fervor, 
None forbid the sacred rite ; 
For thy master’s life is destined 
To expire in crime to-night.” 
Fixed in awe, the aged Basil 
Gazing on the spectre stood ; 
But not with the waning Phantom 
Passed away his icy mood. 


Long in that drear Indian Chamber, 
Like a form of sculptured stone, 

Kept the old and awe-struck servant, 
Vigil terrible and lone ; 

Till the sound of coming footsteps, 
And of voices loud and clear, 

And of ringing spur and sabre, 
Smote upon his spell-bound ear. — 

And in haste the door was opened, 
And with high and plumed crest 

Entered in the noble Baron 
Ushering in a foreign guest. 


‘“* Basil! all is dark and sombre, 

Cast fresh fagots on the hearth, 
And illume the silver sconces 
To preside above our mirth. 


CATHARINE ANNE WARFIELD. 


Let the chamber glow like sunlight ; 
Ill this gloom befits our glee.” 

Then loud laughed the stately Baron, 
Seldom, seldom, so laughed he. | 

*Twas a sound that chilled with terror 
All that knew his nature well: 

*Twas the Heaven’s electric flashing 
Ere the bolt of lightning fell. 


PART SECOND. 


Now the chamber glowed like sunlight— 


Strange and wondrous in that glare, 
Was the weird and ancient arras, 

Were the figures woven there ; 
Wavering with the flickering torches 

Seemed the motley multitude ; 
Twisting serpent, rolling chariot, 

All with ghostly life imbued. 
Crouching tiger—hideous idol— 

All that grand and splendid masque, 
Mixture strange of truth and fable, 

As in sunshine seemed to bask. 


‘“*Long have [ sojourned in India,” 
Thus the lofty stranger said; 
‘There, for wealth and idle treasure, 
Health and youth and blood I shed. 
And I feel like one who dreameth, 
As I on these walls survey, 
All those objects so familiar, 
Year by year and day by day.” 
All in strange and blended splendor, 
Like a vision of the night— 
Never yet on earthly fabric 
Glowed a scene so rich and bright. 


139 


140 WOMEN OF THE SOUTH. 


Fixed upon the spell-wrought arras 
Was the Eastern stranger’s gaze ; 

With his head and heart averted, 
There he dreamed of other days. 

When, with eyes of watchful terror, 
Basil saw his master glide, 

And within the golden chalice 
Brimming with its purple tide, 

With.a stealthy, glancing motion, 
As a conjurer works his spell, 

Cast a drop of ruby liquid 
From a tiny rose-lipped shell. 


“Wither turn, thou Eastern dreamer, 
Pledge me in this golden cup ; 
Tis our old and feudal custon, 
He who tastes must quaff it up. 
Why that brow of gloom and pallor? 
Answer, why that sudden start?” 
Low the Eastern stranger muttered 
Of the spells that chilled his heart. 
““No! my eyes have not deceived me, 
As I fondly dreamed erewhile: 
See, the victim bride ’s descending 
From the Rajah’s funeral pile. 


“See, she cometh, wildly streaming 
Are her robes; her raven hair: 
See she cometh; darkly gleaming 
From her eyes their fell despair. 
Now she stands beside the altar, 
In the Brahmin’s sacred shrine; * 
Now a jewelled cup she seizes, 
lames within it seem to shine. 
Now, O God! she leaves the arras, 
Steps upon the chamber floor ; 
We are lost—the prey of demons ;— 
Baron! I will gaze no more.” 


! 


CATHARINE ANNE WARFIELD. 14] 


Turned away the soul-sick stranger, 
Traversed he the chamber high, 
When the Baron’s awful aspect 
Chained his step and fixed his eye. 
Never from his memory perished, 
Through long years of after life 
In the camp, the court, the battle, 
That remorseful face of strife. 
Rooted as a senseless statue, 
In his hand the cup of gold; 
Lips apart and eyes distended, 
Stood the Norman Baron bold. 


High her cup the Phantom lifted, 
Flames within it seemed to roll; 
Then alone these words she uttered, 
“* Pledge me in thy feudal bowl.” 
Chained and speechless, guest and servant 
Saw the Baron drain the draught ; 
Saw him fall convulsed and blackened, 
As the deadly bow] he quaffed ; 
Saw the Phantom bending o’er him, 
As libation on his head 
Slowly, and with mien exulting, 
From the cup of flames she shed. 


Then a shriek of smothered anguish 
Rang the Indian Chamber through, 

While a gust of icy bleakness 
From the waving arras blew. 

In its breath the watchers shuddered, 
And the portals open rung, 

And the ample hearth was darkened, 
As if ice was on it flung. 

And the lofty torches warring 
For a moment in the blast, 

In their sconces were extinguished ~ 
Leaving darkness o’er the past! 


142 


WOMEN OF THE SOUTH. 


THE FOE’S RETURN. 


She deemed him dead in a foreign land, 

And the smile came back with its glory bland; _ 
Lighting her face, as in other years, 

Ere shame and sorrow had taught her tears. 


She felt like a bird from its cage let free, 

Elate and wild with her ecstasy. 

Oh, thought of horror! that death should bear 
A balm to the bosom of one so fair! 


. 
Yet, deem her not of the cold and vain; 
Long had she bow’d ’neath a galling chain ; 
She had cower’d to the dark disgrace and wrong, 
That demon vengeance had threaten’d long. 


And when she knew that her foe was,gone, 
Her life awaked to a second dawn. 

He was dead! that secret of shame and gloom 
Lay buried deep in his distant tomb. 


He was dead! and no more could that dark face gleam, 
Haggard and vengeful in thought or dream ; 

No more should she shudder to hear his name, 

With a chilling heart and a brow of flame. 


’Twas a horrid joy that made her start, 

With tearful smiles and a thankful heart, 

AS she thought on his corse, bloody and start! 
And his lonesome graye, chilly and dark! 


And she bless’d the steel that laid him low, 
And she sent up prayers for his mortal foe; 
And again the glory of earth and sky 
Came flashing back to her heart and eye. 


CATHARINE ANNE WARFIELD. 


She stood once more in halls of pride, 
And the light of her beauty was deified: 
And she seemed to the eyes of men a star, 
Lovely, but lonely—fiashing, but far. 


There came a festal of splendor rare, 

To welcome a warrior from toil and care; 
He had been afar amid Egypt’s sands, 
The dauntless leader of conquering bands. 


He had risen by his sword from his humble lot, 
And his youth of mystery was all forgot ; 

He had won a name mid his country’s peers— 
None knew the tissue of his earlier years. 


And when he stood in that stately room, 

His brow for awhile forgot its gloom— 

That gathering gloom, that had lingered long 
Over those features haughty and strong. 


His ear inclined to the measures sweet, 
That seem’d the echo of fairy feet; 

And haply all memory of other time, 

Lay hushed awhile in that breast of crime 


A voice sang forth from the festal crowd, 


“We would crown thy temples with laurel proud; 


Hero, bend, that thy brow may wear 
A garland wreathed by the young and fair.” 


He bow’d his head with a mocking smile, 
And the crowd made way for a radiant file; 
CreatureS*of beauty, stately and fair, 

With flowing robes, and with floating hair. 


And one, the first in that lovely train, 
Like a form that gleams from a Grecian fane ; 
With her antique paleness, her godlike mien, 


Fit emblem seemed for the festive queen. 


143 


144 WOMEN OF THE SOUTH. 


She came with a timid and stately grace, 
The noblest and last of a princely race; 
Unconscious she, as the lamb led up, 

To fill with blood the libation cup. 


And now they are standing face to face ;— 
Hath a dream come o’er that festive place ? 
One of those visions ghastly and wild, 

That makes her shriek like a thing defiled? 


She raised her hand to her wildered brow! 
Tis a strange delusion! she murmured low! 
"Tis but a dream—and she strove to speak, 
But her heart was frozen, her voice was weak. 


She met his gaze with its fearful spell. 

And the wreath from her fainting fingers fell ; 
While his low voice hissed on her shuddering ear, 
“We've met at last, slave! dost thou fear?” 


For awhile she stood, as a bird is said 

To meet the gaze of the serpent dread ; 
Pale and still, for a time she stood, 

In the midst of that wondering multitude. 


And who shall say, what horrors shook 

Her parting soul in that long, fixed look ? 
Death had deceived her, and again flung back 
That loathsome form, with its spirit black! 


The grave had yawned, and the dead unurned, 
And with ghastlier horrors the foe returned ! 
He who had crushed her for years in dust, 
Had rent the tomb to resume his trust! 


Such might have been her tempestuous thought, 
If thought in that chilling bosom wrought ; 

But the sudden horror, its fear, its strife, 
Sever’d the strings of that youthful life. 


CATHARINE ANNE WARFIELD. 


And prone she fell on that floor of stone, 
With a gasping sob, and a long, low moan; 
Then all was o’er. Even thus she died! 
And in death at last—was the foe defied ! 


I HAVE SEEN THIS PLACE BEFORE, 


I have seen this place before— 
Tis a strange, mysterious truth ; 

Yet my foot hath never pressed this shore, 
In childhood or in youth; 

I know these ruins grey, 
I know these cloisters dim— 

My soul hath been in these walls away, 
When slumber chains each limb. 


In adream, a midnight dream, 
I have stood upon this heath, 
With this blue and winding stream, 
And the lonely vale beneath ; 
The same dark sky was there, 
With its bleak shade on my brow, 
The same deep feeling of despair 
That clings about me now. 


Friend, ’tis a fearful spell, 
That binds these ruins grey ; 
Why came my spirit here to dwell, 
- When my frame was far away ? 
Can the wild and soaring soul 
Go out on its eagle sweep, 
And traverse earth without control, 
While the frame is wrapt in sleep? 


Hath memory caught a gleam 
From a life whose term is o’er, 
And borne it back in that mystic dream— 
Say, have I lived before ? 
10 


145 


146 


WOMEN OF THE SOUTH. 


Or was prophetic power 
To that midnight vision lent? 

Is my fate bound up in this ruined tower ¢ 
Speak! thou art eloquent. 


_MADELINE. 


All day that name has haunted me— 
That sweet and gentle name— 
Like some deep olden melody, 
Forgotten long by fame, 
Which in one unforgetting heart 
Is loved and prized alone; 
Beautiful from the thoughts that start 
To life with every tone. 


Oh Madeline!—dear Madeline! 
Thy name hath still a spell 

To lead me from this passing scene, 
Back with the past to dwell. 

And when I hear that gentle word, 
So beautiful to me, 

Wild tears within my heart are stirred, 
I yearn to be with thee. 


Thou hast a foreign grave, my friend, 
A lone Italian bed ;— 

Oh! do green trees above thee bend? 
Are blossoms o’er thee shed ? 

Or do the wild rank weeds alone, 
In all their southern bloom, 

Clamber around the simple stone 
They placed to mark thy tomb? 


It is not there that thou should’st sleep, 
Nor yet in vault or aisle, 

Where the sweet rain may never weep, 
The glad sun never smile. 


CATHARINE ANNE WARFIELD. LA? 


In that lone dell where clings the moss, 
Hid from the burning noon, 

Where evermore a fountain voice 
Singeth the same low tune; 


Where the wild flowers grow tall and fair 
In the sun-chequered shade, 

And the song of birds is in the air, 
Should thy low grave be made. 

I would that I could share thy sleep; 
I sicken to depart: 

T’m weary of the thoughts that keep 
Their vigils in my heart. 


I’m weary of the daily care, 
The hourly dread and strife, 
The joys that pall, the dreams that wear 
The energies of life ; 
Vm weary of the light ard vain, 
That still to me are dear; 
The hearts too weak to give again 
The love I lavish here. 


I meet on earth no sympathies ; 
My spirit stands alone; 
'I see with deeper, sadder eyes, 
Than those around me thrown. 
My smiles are sadder than my tears ; 
My sky is overcast ; 
I live with dreams of other years, 
And memories of the past. 


Even as IJ sit and dream alone 
Within this antique hall, 

With its dim echoing floor of stone, 
Its dark empannelled wall, 

With its neglected glimmering hearth, 
Its twilight grey and drear, 

Amid my lone and voiceless dearth 
I dream that thou art here. 


148 


WOMEN OF THE SOUTH. 


I think I still can see thee stand 
Amid the dying light ; i 
Still hear thy voice, still touch thy hand, 
As on that parting night; 
For wheresoe’er thy step hath been, 
Where’er thy voice was free, 
To me—to me—dear Madeline, 
Thou seemest still to be. 


UNHOLY LOVE. 


I will not think of him—I’ll pace 
This old and ruined hall ; 

And dream of that illustrious race, 
Whose pictures line the wall. 

And from their dark and haughty eyes, 
Though faded now, and dim, 

A better spirit shall arise— 
I will not think of him, 


I may not think of him! J’ll stand 
Beneath those branching elms ; 

And drink the sunlight soft and bland, 
And dream of angel realms. 

And from the earth, and from the eve, 
And from the sunlight’s urn, 

My soul her coloring shall receive; 
He shall not here return. 


I must not think of him. I'll call 
Around me dance and song ; 


Until this lone dismantled hall, 


Shakes with the motley throng: 

And with those flashing smiles he praised, 
Pll move amid the scene, 

Till haughty spirits stand amazed, 
And own me for their queen. 


i Da oF 


3 as DOE a Pas 
eee eee uaieore Ae 


Se oe vy, bss oa 





ELEANOR PERCY LEE. 


Mrs. Lez was the younger sister of Mrs. Warfield, and 
author, jointly with her, of the “ Wife of Leon, and Other 
Poems,” as well as the collection which followed it. As a 
child she composed little and with no great facility. Her 
poetic taste, at that period, seemed rather to manifest itself 
through the inspirations of others. She was in the habit of 
committing to memory every poem that struck her fancy; 
and this was done with a facility reminding one of the 
chemical operation of photography. A few moments of 
steady gazing and murmured repetition, and the poem was 
engraven upon her retentive brain, ready for recitation. 

Her talent for declamation was so marked as to have 
entitled her to a distinguished place in histrionic annals, had 
inclination or necessity led her to adopt this line of art. 
Gifted with grace, beauty, marvellous flexibility of feature 
and attitude, wonderful nerve and self-command, and that most 
“excellent thing in woman”-—a richly sympathetic voice— 
nothing was wanted to insure her success, either as reader or 
actress. Her resemblance to the antique heads of Sappho has 
been more than once remarked by artists and admirers of the 
Greek lines of beauty. 

It was not until the sorrows of life began to overshadow 
her joyous spirit, that her native poetic element broke forth 
In strains passionate and tender as her own depths. | 

In her nineteenth year she sustained a loss from which she 


never wholly recovered, and for which she found her greatest 
150 


ELEANOR PERCY LER. 151 


consolation in poetry and religion. She became, soon after, a 
member of the Catholic church, to the doctrines of which she 
had early inclined, and in the observance of which she lived 
and died. | 

She had passed her majority when she gave her hand to 
Henry Lee, a native of Virginia, although a resident of Mis- 
sissippi at the time of their union. They resided henceforth, 
first on Mrs. Lee’s estate in Hinds County, Mississippi—where 
her children were born—and later on Deer Creek—where her 
husband still lives with his sons. She left one daughter, who 
passed to her sister’s guardianship. 

Her valuable life was cut short in its bloom, during the 
fearful epidemic of 1849, which- ravished alike North and 
South. She had merged its last years almost wholly in 
domestic interests, and left only fragmentary literary remains, 
if we except some highly finished translations of the choicest 
poems of Beranger and Lamartine, which it is hoped her 
friends will soon lay before the public. 


THE DESERTED HOUSE. 


Round that house, deserted lying, 

Wearily the winds are sighing 

Evermore with sound undying 
Through the shattered window pane ; 

As if with its wails, distressing, 

It could call each earthly blessing 

From the sods, above them pressing 
Back, to live and breathe again. 


There the cuckoo sits complaining, 

All night long her voice is straining, 

And the empoisoned oak-vine training, 
Hangs its tendrils on the wall. 


152 


WOMEN OF THE SOUTH. 


Once within those chambers dreaming, 

Gentle looks of love were gleaming, © 

Gentle tones with deep love teeming, 
Did unto each other call. 


Far above the roof-tree failing, 

See the hoary vulture sailing, 

Marketh she the serpent trailing 
Underneath the threshold stone. 

Heaven’s bright messengers resembling, 

Ringdoves, here, of old, were trembling, 

As round some fair hand assembling, 
They were fed by her alone. 


Through the chamber windows prying, 
Softly on the dark floor lying, 
See the ghostly moonlight, flying 
Through the untrodden gloom. 
Seems it not to thee, sweet faces, 
Shadowy forms of vanished graces, 
Stealing, flitting to their places, 
In that long forsaken room ? 


Where the darkened stairway windeth, 

There her brood the Eagle mindeth, 

And with chains Arachne bindeth, 
Balustrade to balustrade. 

Once so lightly upward bounding, 

Fairy steps were heard resounding, 

While sweet laughter, wild, astounding, 
Echoes through the mansion made, 


Round the oaken tables spreading, 

Through the hall the guests were treading, 

Where the festal lamps were shedding 
Light upon the ruby wine. 


ELEANOR PERCY LEE. 


"Now swift through the doorway shrunken, 
Creeping o’er the threshold sunken, 
With the dew and starlight drunken, 


Reptile insects seem to twine. 


In the parlor, long forsaken, 

Once the lute was wont to waken; 

And with locks all lightly shaken, 
Maids and matrons joined in mirth. 

Gentle accents here were swelling, 

Hallowed voices often telling 

Heaven alone was virtue’s dwelling ; 
All these beings rest in earth. 


*Mid these garden flowerets pining, 

Neath the starlight dimly shining, 

Where the deadly vine is twining, 
Once were glorious bowers. 

Once were gladsome children playing, 

O’er the grass plots lightly straying, 

With their golden ringlets swaying 
"Neath their crowns of flowers. 


By yon gnarled oak’s curious twisting, 
Here was once a lover’s trysting, 
Fondly to each other listing, 

While they told their plighted vows, 
Often when the lightning streaketh, 
And the wind its branches seeketh, 
Then that olden oak-tree speaketh, 

And sweet voices fill the boughs. 


Could we bring again the glory, 

To this mansion grey and hoary, 

Flinging light on every story, 
Yet it would be desolate. 


153 


154. 


WOMEN OF THE SOUTH. 


Yet (they say) tis doomed hereafter ; 

Forms shall gleam from wall and rafter, 

Full of silent tears and laughter, — 
Mingling with a human fate. 


Some indeed have said, that creeping, 

Nightly from the window peeping, 

Lightly from the casement leaping, 
They a ghostly maid have seen. 

On the broken gate she swingeth, 

And her wan-like hands she wringeth, 

And with garments white she wingeth 
O’er the grassy plain so green. 


To the dark oak-tree she cometh, 
Round its trunk she wildly roameth, 
Shuddering, as the dark stream foameth, 
There she roves till break of day. 
Hers they say was love elicit, 
Yet from out her murdered spirit, 
This sad mansion did inherit 
A curse never done away. 


Therefore, in the balance weighing, 

Underneath the sods decaying, 

With their white hands clasped as praying, 
Sleep the owners of the spot. 

While this home.of the departed, 

Making sad the lightest hearted, 

Standeth still, @ house deserted— 
By the world, save me, forgot. 


ELEANOR PERCY LEER. 155 


THE LILY OF THE NILE. 


Oh! exquisite thou art—thy stately form 
Rears well its head of antique beauty, high 
Above earth’s more degenerate blossoms—for 
Thou wert when Europe was a wilderness, 
And we an unknown people. 

Thou hast seen 
The gorgeous triumphs of Egyptian kings, 
And made thy snowy leaf the scroll, whereon 
The oracles of Isis and Osiris 
Were writ in ages past. Egyptian girls 
Have swept their long robes past thee, as they went 
Bearing their pitchers to the ancient Nile. 
And thou hast seen thine image in its waves, 
As beautiful as theirs. Oh, mystic flower! 
Thy presence fills my heart with inspiration, 
And Pharaoh’s palaces arise again. 
Perchance Cleopatra bound thee on her brow, 
(Not dark, as many deem it, for she was 
Of the pure old Greek race,) and in such crown 
Received the kingly Cassar in her arms. 
Oh, thou art beautiful without compeer, 
Thou sculptured urn—thou handiwork of God! 


Once, in a spell of sickness I lay prone, 

With weeping friends around me. All things were 
Tried in succession, to restore my smile. 

‘What would’st thou, then?” the weary watchers cried ; 
And I replied, ‘A Lily of the Nile! 

Oh, let me look upon its stately stem— 

Let me search deep within its scroll-like leaf, 

Filled to the brim with the cool midnight dew, ® 
And I grow well again. Friends, friends, I die 

Because my heart yearns for tHE BEAUTIFUL, 

Shut from my gaze forever; bring me that, 

And I grow well again !—And that fair flower 


156 WOMEN OF THE SOUTH. 


Hath in itself all that is pure and rare— 
Bear me that flower!’ But thou wert far away; 
Yes, far away 





and thus, from year to year, 

With hurried feet I trod along earth’s gardens, 
Searching for thee! parting the overhanging boughs, 
Putting aside the flowers, and searching still. 

And when they said, ‘ Are these not beautiful?” 

My heart asked for the old Egyptian flower, 

Until I found thee! 


Upon all earth’s blooms, 
Hath my: heart looked with love almost religious: 
But chief to me some speak as if with tongues. 
For me the lone, blue hyacinth, hath a voice 
Redolent of sweet music. Angel dreams 
Float o’er that flower—angel voices breathe 
From its blue petals, with a sacred song. 
For me, the white cape jessamine’s perfume 
Bears thought of love upon it, human love, 
But purified, exalted as the skies. 
But thou, rare Lily! thou art more to me; 
Thou stirrest up the fountain of my life. 
What is it makes thy spell? Say, have I stood 
In some past life upon thy banks, O Nile! 
Amid thy pyramids, thy priests, thy kings, 
So strong is thy spell round me? 
It may be, 
For as I saw thee, flower! my heart leaped forth 
As if to welcome thee, and life itself 
Stayed for a moment all its rushing tides, 
To live within thy breath, and my soul drank 
Thy beauty, like an old familiar thing. 
For thou hast filled some vacant measure up, 
. Of my deep yearnings for the immaculate ! 


ELEANOR PERCY LER. EAE 


THE ANCESTRESS. 


She is weary, 
She is dreary, 
Tn the earth she longs to rest— 
All she cherished, 
All have perished ; 
All on earth she loved the best. 


All who loved her, 
All who moved her 
With their passionate hopes and fears: 
All around her, 
All that bound her 
To the home of earlier years. 


Softly walking, 
Gently talking, 
Evermore in silence sighing; 
Never dreading, 
Never shedding 
Tears, to know that she is dying. 


She is aged, 
Grief hath waged 
War with all her beauty bright; 
And she weareth— 
Yet she beareth 
On her brow a seal of light. 


Oft she sitteth 
And repeateth 
Many a broken accent there; 
God she praiseth, 
And she raiseth 
Oft her withered hands in prayer, 


158 


WOMEN OF THE SOUTH. 


She is mourning, 
Ever turning 
Backward still her longing glance; 
And she weepeth 
| Ere she sleepeth, 
That her dream is but a trance. 


For the cherished 
All have perished, 
All on earth she loved the best. 
She is dreary, 
She is weary— 
In the green earth let her rest. 


THE CHILD OF MANY TEARS. 


His very birth with grief was fraught, 
And ominous the day ; 

The angel who the infant brought, 
The mother called away ; 

And still we reared, in doubt and care, 
The boy through rolling years; 

And called him, in our valley fair, 
‘The child of many tears.” 


He was a gentle, loving thing, 
Of a soft heart and true; 

With love that to our souls did cling, 
And daily, hourly grew; 

And his were dark and shaded eyes ; 
And lashes soft and fine ; 

A forehead calm as summer skies, 
A childish face divine. 


But his was an imperfect mold— 
Oh! sorrow lone and dim— 

Those limbs so free, and lithe, and bold, 
God had not given to him. 


ELEANOR PERCY LEE. 


But bent, and wry, and ill at ease 
In his dark, mournful lot, 

He seemed like a rich master-piece 
Half finished, and—forgot. 


He grew up in our natfve vale, 
Ey’n with the bending flowers; 

His boyish cheek was very pale, 
As jas’mine of the bowers. 

And most he loved to lie at length 
Upon the long soft grass, 

While visions of a sweeping strength 
O’er his deep heart would pass. 


His was a keen and subtile soul— 
And words of power and might, 

And visions he could not control, 
Burst evermore to light. 

The hidden treasures of his thought 
First calmly flowed along, 

Until they swelled, with beauty fraught, 
A river broad and strong. 


He left us—left that lowly home, 
That porch he loved so well: 
We listed his slow step to come, 
Vainly, when evening fell. 
We often to each other spake 
Of him with earnest fears ; 
We loved him for his parent’s sake, 
That ‘ child of many tears.” 


And many a year rolled slowly on, 
With changes crowded fast ; 

We had not heard of him since on 
Our step he pondered last. 


159 


160 


WOMEN OF THE SOUTH. 


One eve, a stranger to our door 
Came covered with the snow, 

And from his lips we heard once more 
Of him—lov’d long ago. 


The highest in the council-room, 
The wittiest in the hall; 
The lord of a far distant home, 
Adored, revered of all; 
Wearing upon a youthful brow, 
The power and pride of years. 
With yearnings strange, we name him now 
The ‘‘child of many tears.” , 


THE SUN-STRUCK EAGLE. 


I saw an eagle sweep to the sky— 

The God-like !—seeking his place on high, 
With a strong, and wild, and rapid wing— 
A dark and yet a dazzling thing; 


And his arching neck, his bristling crest, 


And the dark plumes quivering upon his breast ; 
And his eye, bent up to each beam of light, 
Like a bright sword flash’d with a sword in fight. 


I saw him rise o’er the forest trees ; 

I saw his pinion ride the breeze; _ 

Beyond the clouds I watched him tower 

On his path of pride—his flight of power. 

I watched him wheeling, stern and lone, 
Where the keenest ray of the sun was thrown; 
Soaring, circling, bathed in light: 

Such was that desert eagle’s flight. 


Suddenly, then, to my straining eye, 


- I saw the strong wing slack on high; 


ELEANOR PERCY LEE. 161 


Failing, falling to earth once more; 

The dark breast covered with foam and gore; 
The dark eyes’ glory dim with pain; 

Sick to death with a sun-struck brain! 
Reeling down from that height divine, 


Eagle of heaven! such fall was thine! 


Even so we see the sons of light, 

Up to the day-beam steer their flight; 

And the wing of genius cleaves the sky, 

As the clouds rush on when the winds are high; 
Then comes the hour of sudden dread— 

Then is the blasting sun-light shed ; 

And the gifted fall in their agony, 

Sun-struck eagle! to die like thee! 


BURY HER WITH HER SHINING HAIR. 


Bury her with her shining hair 
Around her streaming bright ; 

Bury her with those locks so rare 
Enrobing her in light. 

As saints who in their native sky 
Their golden haloes wear, 

Around her forehead, pure and high, 
Enwreathe the shining hair. 


/ She was too frail on earth to stay; 

I never saw a face, 

On which, of premature decay 
Was set so plain a trace. 

She was too pure to linger here, 
Amid the homes of earth ; 

Her spirit in another sphere 
Had its immortal birth. 

bg 


162 


WOMEN OF THE SOUTH. 


She was not one to live and love, 
Amid earth’s fading things ; 

Her being had its home above, 
And spread immortal wings. 

And round her now, as still she sleeps 
Encoffined in her prime, 

No eye in anguished sorrow weeps, 
For grief is here sublime. 


Even while she lived, an awe was cast 
Around her loveliness ; 

It seemed as if, whene’er she passed, 
A spirit came to bless. 

A child upraised its tiny hands, 
And cried—“‘ Oh, weep no more, 

Mother! behold an angel stands 
Before our cottage door.” 


We would not bring her back to life, 
With word, or charm, or sign— 

Nor yet recall to scenes of strife 
A creature all divine. 

We would not even ask to shred 
One tress of golden gleam, 

That o’er that fair and perfect head 
Sheds a refulgent beam. 


No!—lay her with her shining hair 
Around her flowing bright ; 

We would not keep, of one so rare, 
Memorials in our sight. 

Too harsh a shade would seem to lie 
vn all things here beneath, 

If we beheld one token by, 
Of her who sleeps in death. 























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MARIA J. McINTOSH. 


Ir is now nineteen years since Miss McIntosh, suddenly 
deprived of an ample fortune, sent out her first little volume to 
feel the pulse of the public, and decide the question, “ to be, or 
not to be,” in the sense of authorship. It was a child’s book, 
of religious tone and pleasantly familiar style, its very name 
(“ Blind Alice”) suggestive of its doubtful mission. But the 
“ery of the children,” and the verdict of the people, were a 


unanimous “to be;” 


and in all these after years, she has not 
only held her position, but, without adventitious aids, eccentri- 
cities of style, or any species of chicanery, steadily advanced. 
Her name is familiar now in every household, and her books 
have become a feature of American literature. 

Twenty-five years have made Miss McIntosh a citizen of the 
North, and gladly would we claim her by birth as by adoption; 
but “honor to whom honor is due.” It cannot be denied, that 
though of Scottish descent, tracing back to the clan McIntosh, 
famous in history as loyal adherents of the House of Stuart, she 
was born in Georgia, in the village of Sunbury, not far from 
Savannah, and there received her primal stamp and stamina. 

Driven from his native land by the fall of the Stuarts, 
Captain John More McIntosh, the great-grandfather of the 
author, set sail, in 1735, with one hundred retainers, for the 
colony of Georgia. They landed on the banks of the Altamaha, 
and called their settlement (now known as Darien) New Inver- 


ness, in memory of Fatherland. The county still bears the 
163 


164 WOMEN OF THE SOUTH. 


original name of McIntosh. Among the sons and grandsons of 
this brave pioneer, were Colonel William and Major Lachlan 
McIntosh, the grandfather and father of our author; both 
officers in the American army of the Revolution, the latter a 
lawyer as well, and proving himself large enough to combine, 
and adorn equally, the two arduous and honorable professions. 

Soon after the Revolution, Major McIntosh, who seems to 
have been a man of heart and great social attractions, married 
a lady every way worthy of him, and removed to the village of 
Sunbury, where, in a fine old mansion looking out upon the sea, 
was born and reared the subject of our sketch. Very vivid and 
tender are her recollections of this old home, amid whose natural. 
loveliness, and social and fireside genialities, passed the spring- 
time of her life; warm, golden, matvve memories, which are 
woven with the very fibres of her being, and stamp her, every- 
where, a southron born. 

Even the little village of Sunbury boasted of an Academy, 
with an “Trish gentleman,” a graduate of the University of ° 
Antrim, at its head; and under these auspices the “‘ young idea” 
of our author commenced, happily, its development. To the . 
discipline of this school, in a good degree, she gratefully ascribes 
the habit of self-reliance, which was afterward her invaluable 
and distinguishing characteristic. It was very early called in 
requisition ; for her mother, rendered helpless for years before 
her death by a prostrating illness, was obliged to throw upon 
the young school-girl not only the mantle of her own responsi- 
bilities, but the flesh-and-spirit-trying office of a devoted nurse. 
Years of cheerful, selfdenying ministration by the bedside of 
this dear invalid, prepared our author, perhaps more effectively 
than any other experience, for her part in the stirring drama of 
life. | 
In 1835, after the death of both father and mother, Miss 
McIntosh came to reside in New York with her brother, Captain 


MARIA J. McINTOSH. 165 


James M. McIntosh, U. 8S. Navy. Disposing of her property 
in Georgia, she then vested the proceeds in New York securi- 
ties, and entered, with the full glow of her exuberant nature, 
upon the electrical currents of her new sphere. 

But not thus was she to awake to a true self-knowledge. In 
the crisis of 1837, every vestige of her patrimony was swallowed 
up, and out of the vortex rose a new creation. Thrown upon 
her own powers, they met her, for the first time, face to face, 
strong and vigorous. Cast upon the beautiful faith of her 
childhood, she found herself serenely upheld, and with a hopeful 
prayer she began her work. 

It had been suggested by a friend, that she should test. her 
powers in a series of juvenile tales, and establish a relation with 
the public under the name of “ Aunt Kitty.” In two years 
“ Blind Alice” was completed, and then ensued the delays 
usually attendant upon the publication of an unaccredited work. 
Not until January, 1841, was it brought out by Mr. Newman, 
and then with marked success. 

Thus stimulated, our author went rapidly through the 
proposed series, and, in 1848, had given to the world succes- 
sively, “Jessie Grahame,” “Florence Arnott,” “Grace and 
Clara,” and ‘“ Ellen Leslie,” each one a simply tissued casket, 
in which, pure as a dew-drop, sparkled its own jewel of moral 
truth. “ Aunt Kitty” grew famous. Countless were the curly- 
headed darlings who blessed her in their nightly prayers, and 
carried her, a last, sweet thought, into dream-land. Nor can 
we doubt that from these little books has dropped into many 
a tender heart such seed as afterward sprang up and ripened 
into golden fruit. About this fair, fine basis of her fame, Miss 
McIntosh loves to wreathe the choicest of her laurels. 

In 1844, “ Conquest and Self-Conquest,” and “Woman an 
Enigma,” were published by the Messrs. Harper, arid, in 1845, 
the same house produced “Praise and Principle,” and “ The 


166 WOMEN OF THE SOUTH. 


Cousins,” a little volume intended, originally, to complete the 
series called “ Aunt Kitty’s Tales.” She then wrote “ Two 
~ Lives, or To Seem and to Be,” which was published by the 
Messrs. Appleton in 1846, with the name, until then withheld, of 
the author. In 1847, the same house republished “ Aunt Kitty’s 
Tales,” corrected and collected in one volume; and, in 1848, 
brought out “ Charms and Counter-Charms,” a work in which 
the author seems to have concentrated the strength of her artistic 
and womanly nature. It is threaded with veins and nerves, as 
if she had dipped her pen in living hearts, and written on, and 
on, because the electric tide would flow. It impresses one with 
a painful sense of reality, and, at the same time, with a conflict- 
ing sense of unnaturalness—the unnaturalness, not of highly- 
wrought fiction, but of entense truth. The plot is complicate, 
but well defined and sustained. Questions of vital import are 
involved, and worked out with a will and fervor which leave 
their indelible record upon the memory of the reader. 

Easton Hastings, the hero, belongs, we should say, to the 
German type of organism and temperament. A “dark man”— *— 
the philosopher Alcott would call him—with luminous phases. . 
‘4. man of strong will and rare physical and spiritual magnetism ; 
skilled in metaphysical disquisition, worldly-wise, skeptical, and 
sufficient ; lofty and cold as a mountain peak to the many, but 
to those who interest him, or whom for any reason he would 
interest, warm, winsome, and low-voiced as the sigh of a sum- 
mer twilight ; a man of whom we can, most of us, say, we have 
known one such in a lifetime; one whom we admired and 
deprecated ; a sphere that was not loud nor discordant, but deep 
and unserene ; a spirit that knew its power and loved to test it, 
though in the process it stirred and troubled many waters. 

Evelyn Beresford, a young girl of warm heart and generous 
impulses, the pet and sunbeam of her father’s house, marries 
Easton Hastings, and is borne along his fiery orbit, ignoring, to 


MARIA J. McINTOSH. 167 


meet his exactions, one after another, the finer and holier 
instincts of her nature, till at last she reaches a point from 
whence she must retrace her steps or lose all. Stifling the ery 
of her agonized heart, she goes forth from his home, with her 
frail life in her hand, and Easton Hastings, left alone with the 
memory of her love and prayerful vigils, for the first time 
awakes to a sense of “heart within and God o’erhead.” Peni- 
tent and subdued, he seeks out the fugitive, and a new union, 
based upon the sympathy and fitness of divine appointment, 
secures to both the happiness which had well-nigh been wrecked 
forever. 

There is no work from the pen of Miss McIntosh which con- 
veys to the world a more important and salutary lesson than 
this. Written with a fervidness and abandon which belong to 
no other production of the gifted writer, it sends its moral home 
with greater certainty, and affords the fairest criterion of her 
powers. 

In 1849, “ Evenings at Donaldson Manor,” a collection of 
stories, written at different times for magazines, was published 
by the Appletons, and, in 1850, they also issued ‘Woman in 
America, her Work and her Reward.” 

In this book the writer appears in a new aspect. Leaving 
the rich fields of imagination, she comes before her readers with 
an ethical treatise, in which she most skillfully dissects the arti- 
ficial system of social life in America, and shows herself capable 
of a wide and well-linked range of logical thought. We find in 
this work strong proofs of the writer’s self-assertion and equi- 
poise. She has evidently lost much of her respect for 


“The pleasant old conventions of our false humanity.” 


and looks at life’s shams and servilities through her own proper 
eye-glass. She even ventures to define clearly her conception 
of that hackneyed, evasive, nondescript thing, “a woman’s. 


168 WOMEN OF THE SOUTH. 


sphere ;” and her ideas upon the subject are in strict accordance 
with her life. : 

Her next book, “The Lofty and the Lowly,” appeared in 
1858. It is a tale descriptive of Southern life, and has sold 
largely at home and abroad. 

In 1857, “ Violet, or the Cross and the Crown,” was brought 
out by Jewett & Co., of Boston. This work is marked by fine 
delineations and dramatic power, no less than by simplicity and 
pathos. 

The story unfolds with a wild shipwreck scene on the coast 
of New Jersey. A sweet babe, the only living thing upon the 
stranded vessel, is found lashed to an upper berth, while its 
dead mother lies, white and cold, beneath the water upon the 
cabin floor. The burial scene upon that desolate sliore—the 
group of rude wreckers, and the lonely waif-child—the still 
sleeper in the rough deal-box—the “ dust to dust ” of the sublime 
service, mingling with the hoarse roar of the ocean—is singu- 
larly impressive. The bookis full of such pictures. 

The foundling is claimed by one of the wreckers, and taught 
to look upon him and his coarse companions as her natural pro- | 
tectors. While yet very young, by one of the coincidences 
occasional to real life, inevitable to romance, she is thrown into 
the presence of her true father, who, unconscious of their tender 
relation, yet impelled by an undefinable instinct, adopts his 
unknown child. She is baptized Violet Ross, in memory of his 
angel wife—her mother—and removed from the lawless wreck- 
ers to a refined and luxurious home. But, amid the amenities 
of her new position, one thought haunts and distresses her ; she 
is not Violet Ross, the daughter of her noble foster-father, but 
Mary Van Dyke, and must still say “father” to the repulsive 
wrecker, and “ mother ” to the wrecker’s wife; they have a first 
claim, and may, at any time, recall her. The good pastor tells 
her that every human creature must bear a cross on earth, who 


MARIA J. McINTOSH. 169 


would wear a crown in heaven, and that this is her cross. That 
night the angels record the vow of the beautiful girl, to bear 
cheerfully and unfalteringly the burden imposed upon her; and 
then commence a life of sacrifice and a series of events which 
give to the book a peculiar and deep interest. Many a bruised 
heart has lifted itself hopefully in the light of little Violet’s 
smile and the strength of the promise, thus happily presented, 
“ Bear the cross, and ye shall wear the crown.” 

In 1858, “ Meta Gray,” a juvenile tale, which has been read 
through springing tears by more than one with small claims to 
juvenility, was published by the Appletons. 

In January, 1859, Miss McIntosh, in company with her 
nephew (the Hon. John Ward, American minister to China) 


and his family, sailed for Liverpool. After spending some 


months in pleasant wanderings about England and France, Mr. 
Ward proceeded upon his mission, and Miss McIntosh, in com- 
pany with Mrs. Ward and her children, settled quietly down in 
one of the picturesque valleys of Geneva, Switzerland ; just such 
a nestling-place as Ossian would have painted with one dash 
of his magical pencil: “a green field in the bosom of hills winds 
silent with its own blue stream.” Their little cottage, shut in 
by Alpine heights, looking out only upon its own vale and 
stream, the bright flowers in the clefts of the mountain, and the 
deepening depths of ever-changing cloud-land, was the very 
haven of rest which the over-wrought brain of our author 
required. Here, in the society of a few genial friends, and in 
tender and worshipful communion with the great heart of 
Nature, she not only gathered strength and inspiration, but 
memorized much valuable material for future labors. 

At the close of the year, unwilling to remain longer from 
duties and responsibilities at home, she returned to America, 
and is now preparing for publication a work commenced before 
her .departure for Europe: writing in intervals of leisure, 


170 WOMEN OF THE SOUTH. 


snatched from social, tutorial and fireside claims, which would 
fill up, and overrun, a life less determined and systematic. 
Two or three hours of each day are devoted to the young ladies 
of Miss Haines’ well-ordered school: and occasionally, as if to 
show the utmost tension of which twelve mortal hours are 
capable, she stzrs wp an appreciative class at her own house, 
with readings from the, Greek tragedies. 

Miss McIntosh is known to the world chiefly as a prose 
writer; yet among her unpublished papers are to be found 
metrical gems such as only a poet could have conceived and 
crystallized ; fragments of songs, too, are there: a sigh of “ A 
Lament,” a swell of “ A Pean,” a pinion of “ A Prayer,” some 
of which thrill on the ear like the impinging strains of, the old 
harpers. These specimens are simple in their construction ; 
there is no straining for metaphorical effect, and no sublime 
ambiguity; but they come, as true poems should, from the 
heart, mellow and rhythmical with the heart’s emotions. 

Miss McIntosh’s books have all been translated into French, 
and have sold largely, both in England and I'rance. She has 
achieved for herself independence and distinction, and now, in 
a pleasant home, dispenses those refined courtesies which are 
ever a distinguishing mark of the high-bred Southerner. 

But we must not forget that we are presenting Miss McIn- 
tosh to the world only as the writer ; the mimosan modesty of 
the woman will ever limit to her immediate circle the truest 
knowledge of her native nobleness and Christian worth. 


WOMAN—HER OFFICES AND HER POWERS. 


How many eloquent theses have been written, and how much logic 
wasted, to prove the equality of the sexes! It seems to us, that the writers 
and speakers on this subject would have done well to commence by defin- 


MARIA J. McINTOSH. 17t 


ing their terms. What is meant by equality as here used? It is intended 
to convey the idea that the soul of woman is as precious to the Father 
of spirits as that of man? that woman has an equal interest with man in 
all those great events which have marked the dealings of God with His 
intelligent creation on our earth, from the hour in which Adam, awaking 
from a deep sleep, found beside him the companion of his sinless and 
happy life, to the present moment, when the sin-stricken and sorrowing 
soul of man, echoing the divine conviction that it is not good for him to 
be alone, still seeks in woman his “help-meet”in the labors, the trials, 
and sufferings of mortality? Are we to understand from it that woman, 
equally with man, has a trust committed to her by the Judge of all, for the 
fulfillment of which she will be held responsible? Can these things be 
matter of doubt? Were not Mary and Martha loved as well as Lazarus? 
Did not the soul of Anna kindle with as divine an inspiration as that of 
Simeon, when she held in her arms the infant Saviour ? } 

Or is the question, whether woman exerts an equally important influence 
over the character and destinies of our race? This- can scarcely be a ques- 
tion to one familiar with the records of Paradise and Bethlehem. 

And yet the unqualified assertion of equality between the sexes, would 
be contradicted alike by sacred and profane history. 

Different offices and different powers—this is what we would assert of 
them, leaving to others the vain question of equality or inequality. Each 
seems to us equally important to the fulfillment of God’s designs in the for- 
mation, the preservation and the perfection of human society. 

The stout heart and strong hand of man are obviously needed in every 
successive stage of social organization, from its earliest attempts to the 
highest development it has yet attained. There has been a time predicted, 
indeed, and we humbly hope there are already tokens that this good time is 
coming, when ‘“‘the wolf shall dwell with the lamb, and the leopard shall lie 
down with the kid, and the young lion and the fatling together, and a little 
child shall lead them ;” that is, when the passions which have made mankind 
like ferocious animals shall be subdued, and a little child, the type of love, 
shall lead those for whom bolts and bars had been needed. But till that 
period arrive, would not our earth be as one wide Bedlam, were it not that 
the strong arm of government supplies outward restraints for those who 
have no restraining principle within? And this government—is it not 
clearly man’s province? Has it not been committed to him by heaven, and 
is not the nature with which he is gifted the seal of that commission? Law 


ie} WOMEN OF THE SOUTH. 


is an uncompromising, inexorable power ; can it be the product of a gentle 
woman’s mind? It must be upheld by a force which will prove opposition 
bootless; does that belong to woman ? 

But while all the outward machinery of government, the body, the thews 
and sinews of society, are man’s, woman, if true to her own not less impor- 
tant or less sacred mission, controls the vital principle. Unseen herself, 
working like nature, in secret, she regulates its pulsations, and sends forth 
from its heart, in pure, temperate flow, the life-giving current. It is hers to 
warm into life the earliest germs of thought and feeling in the infant mind, 
to watch the first dawning of light upon the awakening soul, to aid the first 
faint struggles of the clay-encumbered spirit, to clasp the beautiful realities 
which here and there present themselves amid the glittering falsities of 
earth, and to guide its first tottering steps into the paths of peace. And 
who does not feel how her warm affections and quick irrepressible sympa- 
thies fit her for these labors of love? As the young immortal adwances in 
his career, he comes to need a severer discipline, and man, with his uncon- 
ceding reason and stern resolve, becomes his teacher. Yet think not that 
‘woman’s work is done when the child has passed into the youth, or the 
youth into the man. Still,.as disease lays its hand heavily upon the strong 
frame, and sorrow wrings the proud heart of man, she, the “ help-mect,” if 
faithful to her allotted work, is at his side, teaching him to bend to the 
storms of life, that he may not be broken by them; humbly stooping herself, 
that she may remove from his path every “stone of stumbling,” and gently 
leading him onward and upward to a Divine consoler, with whose blessed 
ministerings the necessities of a more timid spirit and a feebler physical 
organization have made her familiar. 


“OUT OF THE MOUTHS OF BABES.” * 


The little Eva, for so Easton Hastings called his first-born, was a fair 
child, with the soft.eyes and dimpled cheeks of her mother, and with all her 
mother’s loving heart. The affection of this child for her grave, quiet father, 
had been the subject of wondering observation to nurses and nursery-maids, 
and of silent delight to Evelyn, almost from her birth. She was a gentle 
child, and few things moved her to any vivacious demonstration of feeling, 
but his entrance was early welcomed by a soft. dove-like note, and an eager, 


*  * «Charms and Counter Charms.” 


MARIA J. McINTOSH. Ghosh 


dancing movement of her hands and feet. She would lie quietly for hours 
with her head pillowed on his bosom, and when he was compelled to resign 
her, though she seldom cried aloud, the quivering of the little lip, and the 
tenacious grasp of the baby-hand, made a more touching appeal to his feel- 
ings. That clinging baby-touch, that soft baby-voice, had exercised a magic 
power over the heart of Easton Hastings, awakening the first pure, unselfish 
love he had ever known. To this love, and to the home it brightened, he 
turned with new power of enjoyment, after the knowledge of Mrs. Mabury’s — 
death had set him free from the torture caused by the thought of her living 
agonies. It was but a few short weeks after this, that -he sat reading one 
day in the room which Mary had formerly occupied at Beresford Hall, but 
which had long been designated in the family as Mr. Hastings’ study, from 
the fact of his having removed his books and papers there, and spending 
many of his hours among them. He had not read long, ere he heard those 
little feet, ‘‘ whose very step had music in’t” for his ear, come pattering 
along ‘the floor of the wide hall, and then, as they paused, a little hand 
tapped at the door, and a soft voice cried, ‘‘’Tis Eve, papa.” 

He delayed for awhile to open the door, that he might hear the sweet 
summons again. When admitted, the child amused herself for some time 
with a book of colored engravings, but at length climbed upon the sofa, on 
which he sat, and saying, in a languid voice, ‘‘ Eve tired, papa,” stretched 
herself out with her head on his knee, and soon fell asleep with his hand 
stroking her ringlets. She had looked a little pale in the morning, but as 
she slept her color deepened till her cheeks and lips were of a carnation tint. 
Her breath came quick, and while he was admiring her beauty, and rejoicing 
in what he thought the glow of health, fever was rioting in her veins—the 
canker-worm was eating into the heart of his flower. We pass over the 
thrill of agony when he first discovered the truth—the days and nights of 
fearful watching beside the couch of that beloved sufferer, during which 
Evelyn—the fond Evelyn, to whom her children were as the dearer parts of 
her own being—had to become his comforter, and come at once to those last 
hours, e¥ery moment of which impressed itself indelibly on his being. 

The child’s disease was scarlet fever; and as it was before the German 
Hippocrates had revealed to the world the great antidote against that poison 
with which God has furnished it, or, at least, before that revelation had been 
widely received in America, her case admitted little hope from the first. 
Ten days and nights of ever-deepening gloom had passed, and in the silent 
night, having insisted that Evelyn, who had herself shown symptoms of ill- 


174 WOMEN OF THE SOUTH. 


ness through the day, should retire to bed, Easton Hastings sat alone watch- 

ing with a tightening heart the disturbed sleep of little Eva. It was near 

midnight when that troubled sleep was broken. The child turned from side 
to side uneasily, and looked somewhat wildly around her. 

“What is the matter with my darling?” asked Easton Hastings, in tones 
of melting tenderness, 

‘‘ Where’s mamma? Eve want mamma to say ‘ Our Father!’ ” 

Easton Hastings had often contemplated the beautiful picture of his child 
“kneeling, with clasped hands, beside her mother, to lisp her evening prayer, 
or since her illness forbade her rising from her bed, of Evelyn kneeling 
beside it, taking those clasped hands in hers, and listening to Eva’s softly- 
murmured words. Well he knew, therefore, what was meant by Eva’s 
simple phrase, ‘“‘ To say our Father.” 

‘‘ Mamma is asleep,” he said; ‘‘ when she awakes I will call her.” 

** No, no, papa; Eve asleep then.” 

‘*T will call her at once, then, darling,” and he would have moved, but 
the little hand was laid on his to arrest him. 

‘‘ No—don’t wake poor mamma; papa, say ‘Our Father’ for Eve.” 

‘“‘ Will Eve say it to papa? Speak, then, my darling,” he added, finding 
that though the hands were clasped, and the sweet eyes devoutly closed, Eva 
remained silent. 

‘‘ No—Eve too sick, papa—Eve can’t talk so much. Papa kneel down 
and say Our Father, like mamma did last night—won’t you, papa?” 

Easton Hastings could not resist that pleading voice; and kneeling, he 
laid his hands over the clasped ones of his child, and for the first time 
since he had murmured it with childish earnestness in his mother’s ear, 
his lips gave utterance to that hallowed form of prayer which was given 
to man by a divine teacher. At such an hour, under such circumstances, 
it could not be uttered carelessly; and Easton Hastings understood its 
solemn import, its recognition of God’s sovereignty, its surrender of all 
things to Him. He understood it, we say, but he trembled at it. His 
infidelity was annihilated, but he believed as the unreconciled befieve, and 
his heart almost stood still with fear while ‘“‘Thy will be done on earth 
as it is in heaven,” fell slowly from his lips. 

Soothed by his compliance, Eve became still, and seemed to sleep, but 
only for a few minutes. Suddenly, in a louder voice than had been heard 
within that room for days, she exclaimed, ‘‘ Papa, papa, see there—up 


there, papa!” 


MARIA J. McINTOS H. ? 175 


Her own eyes were fixed upward, on the ceiling, as it seemed to Easton 
Hastings, for to him nothing else was visible, while a smile of joy played on 
her lips, and her arms were stretched upward as to some celestial visitant. 

“Eve coming!’ she cried again. ‘‘ Take Eve!” 

‘‘ Will Eve leave papa?” cried Easton Hastings, while unconsciously 
he passed his arm over her, as if dreading that she would really be borne 
from him. 

With eyes still fixed upward, and expending her last strength in an 
effort to rise from the bed, Eve murmured in broken tones, ‘‘ Papa come, 


too—mamma—grandpa—little brother—dear papa” 





The last word could have been distinguished only by the intensely- 
listening ear of love. It ended in a sigh; and Easton Hastings felt, even 
while he still clasped her cherub form, and gazed upon her sweetly smil- 
ing face, that his Eve had indeed left him forever. That she had ceased 
to exist, with the remembrance of that last scene full in his mind, he 
could not believe. Henceforth, heaven with its angels, the ministering 
spirits of the Most High, was a reality, it was the habitation of his Eve, 
and his own heart went longingly forth to it. His proud, stern, unbend- 
ing nature had been taught to tremble at the decree of ‘“‘Him who ruleth 
over the armies of heaven and among the inhabitants of the earth ”’—the 
Being and Nature upon which he had hitherto speculated as grand abstrac- 
tions, became at once unspeakably interesting facts. Would He contend 
with him in wrath? Would he snatch from him, one by one, the bless- 
ings of his life, crushing the impious heart which had reviled His attributes 
and denied His existence? Or was He indeed “so long suffering,” so 
‘‘plenteous in merey,” that He would prove even to him that His might 
was the might of a Saviour? 


A SOUTHERN HOME. 


Home! Home! I have had too many resting-places in my not very 
long life—this is my twentieth birthday—but I have had, I can have, but 
one home. For eight years I have not seen it with the bodily eye, and 
yet how vividly it stands before me! A week ago, I determined to paint 
it, and the picture, to which I have given every moment of leisure, is 
done; here in this record of thought and feeling meant only for 


176 WOMEN OF THE SOUTH. 


myself, I may say what I truly think, that it is well done; but I am 
not satisfied. 

There is the very beach on which I gathered shells with my faithful 
nurse, my kind, devoted Charity. To the eastward, the blue waves are 
lifting their white foam-crests to the sun; inland, I can distinguish amid 
the mass of verdure which marked the almost tropical luxuriance of St. 
Mary’s Isle, the glistening leaves of the orange-trees only half concealing 
their snowy flowers and golden fruit, and the darker green of the old 
oaks, “‘the king of forests all,” from whose giant boughs the long pen- 
dent moss suspends its floating drapery of silvery grey. Within the circle 
of those live oaks, rises the home which sheltered my orphan childhood; 
a frame building, two stories in. height, and surrounded by a piazza, whose 
pillars wreathed with roses, honey-suckles, and woodbine, gave something 
of airy brightness to what would otherwise have been without ornament 
and grace. 


VIOLET; OR THE CROSS AND CROWN. 


Mr. Devereux went to his little bed, up stairs, with a pleasant feeling 
that he had this night done the work appointed to him by heaven. With 
loving thoughts of her who was now associated with every noble endeavor of 
his life, with pleasant dreams of a blissful future spent with her—dreams 
with which the storm-sounds mingled strangely, seeming to give intensity to _ 
his enjoyment of their perfect peacefulness—he fell asleep. When he awoke, 
the dull grey light of the morning was shining in at his little window, and, 
even with consciousness half restored, the noise of loud voices below him 
mingling with the raging of the storm, made him start up and look out. 
Oh, for the pencil of a Salvator, to present the scene on which he gazed! 
The mad waters, white with the foam of the breakers, rushed hissing and 
roaring, far up the beach, looking, at times, as if they would dash themselves 3 
into the very window at which he stood, while the wild winds flung their 
spray far, far beyond. On the beach were men and women, shrieking, 
screaming, fighting, plunging into the roaring waves to snatch a trunk, a bale 
of goods, a keg, as it floated up amidst broken spars and timbers; and, Oh, 
horror! were those dead bodies? Dimly seen at one moment, completely 
shut out by the driving rain and spray at the next, seeming so near the shore 
that Mr. Devereux believed he could swim to it, lay the ship, or rather the 


MARIA J. McINTOSH. VET 


remains of it, careening to the shore till the water nearly reached the top of 
its leeward bulwarks, and its one mast scarcely maintained an angle of forty- 
five degrees with the horizon. The stern, and even so far forward as the 
mainmast, was either alréady gone, or lay so deep that the sea broke over it 
continuously. An instant had been enough to give Mr. Devereux the main 
features of this scene, and, hastily flinging on his clothes, he sprang down the 
steps, and emerged among the excited actors on the beach. He found Ben 
Ham and Mike among the most eager of them, though obliged to fight, not 
with the elements only, but often with the angry men around them for their 
possessions. Listening to the outcries against them, he soon discovered that 
no suspicion was entertained of their agency in extinguishing the light, last 
night. He afterward learned that it was the custom for the one first on the 
- ground in the morning to do this; and that he who had found it done this 
morning supposed, naturally enough, that another had been before him, and- 
in the following excitement, no inquiry had been made. For Mr. Devereux 
himself, there was but one thought, one excitement, in this scene. Were 
there lives on board that ship which might yet be saved? He shouted the 
question into the ears of more than one, but could obtain no answer ; none 
seemed to have thought of it. He rushed into the house for a glass which 
always hung in Dick Van Dyke’s cabin, and, finding a rest for it, he kept his 
eye steadily directed to the wreck for several minutes. Suddenly throwing 
the glass aside, he sprang down to the shore, and seizing Ben Ham, shouted, 
‘There are living creatures on that wreck—a man and a woman! Let us 
try to save them! A hundred dollars for you, if we bring them safe to 
land.” 

A hundred dollars! It seemed a fortune to the wrecker. He looked 
around him carefully, measured the distance to the wretk with his eye, noted 
the direction of the wind and the height of the tide; then, shaking his head, 
sent back the ery, ‘‘ Ef I’d more ’an one life, I'd try.” 

‘¢ And shall we stand here, like cowards, and see a woman die before us ?”’ 
cried Mr. Devereux, excited as he had never been in his whole life before. 
“JT will not do it, at any rate! Have youa mortar here? Perhaps we may 
send a rope on board!” 

There was none. 

‘‘ Where is the nearest life-boat? I will go in her alone, if no one of you 
is man enough to aid me!” 

On ‘that whole coast, from Sandy Hook to Cape May, there was not a 
life-boat. 

12 


178 WOMEN OF THE SOUTH. 


“A rope! Bring me a rope! I will swim out with it!” he cried, in 
desperation. 

There was no rope to be found fitted for such a purpose. 

“Ts there nothing by which life can be saved? There! there! do you 
see that woman? Must she die before us?” 

Look, gesture, the sharp agony in his voice, more than his words, awoke 
some responsive feeling in two or three of the women among his auditors. 

‘¢There’s the yawl in the lagoon,” cried one; ‘‘I guess she couldn’t upset 
easy.” 

“She wouldn’t upset, but she’d go to pieces in five minutes in sich a sea,” 
rejoined Ben Ham. Mr. Devereux did not hear, or would not heed. 

‘““Fifty—a hundred dollars for every man that will help me launch that 
boat, and row her to the wreck !” he shouted. 

“Ef the boat was yere, an’ ’twas ebb tide, we might try,” said Ben Ham; 
‘but it’s up in the lagoon, an’ we’d be tell next week rowing to the inlet and 
up yere.”’ 

‘Why not drag it across the beach ?” 

‘A heavy, six-oared yawl ’cross this san’ half a mile?” 

A cart was at this moment driven up from Manasquam, whose inhabi- 
tants had seen the wreck, and were coming to put their sickles into the 
horrid harvest. Mr. Devereux seized the driver, made a bargain with him 
for his horse, found his own driver and secured his team, and in less than an 
hour the yawl was lying on the shore. But it was still flood tide. The tide, 
however, was just on the turn. In two hours, even in an hour, it would be 
strong ebb. The wind would probably lull then, and there would be a 
chance, at least, of success in their efforts. Now there was none. Mr, 
Devereux was oblige# to yield, though he questioned, sadly, ‘‘ Will the wreck 
last till then?”” He would willingly, with his present excited feelings, have 
accepted the greater risk for himself of earlier action; but what could he do 
with such a boat without aid? The interval was passed in doing everything 
possible, at such a time, to strengthen the boat against the action of the 
waves. The time seemed ages to Mr. Devereux. Again and again he con- 
sulted his watch, again and again pointed the glass to the wreck, and searched 
for those who were waiting there face to face with death. 

The tide had been running out for about an hour and a half, when he 
sprang from the glass to the group at work upon the boat, crying: ‘‘ There 
is not amoment to be lost! The man has jumped overboard, and is swim- 
ming to the shore! He would not have done this, had not the wreck been 


MARIA J. McINTOSH. 179 


parting! We must be off now or never! Iam a good coxswain myself. I 
have held the helm in a sea as rough as this, and come safe to land! Who 
are the best oarsmen among you?” 

He spoke to Ben Ham, who pointed out five besides himself, as entitled 
to this honor. Mr. Devereux called them around him. ‘‘ Now, men!” he 
cried, ‘‘ You ought to be brave, for you are Americans! J am an English- 
man, and I am going to that wreck! Will you let it be said that an English- 
man is braver than Americans? A hundred dollars to every man of: you 
that will follow me!” He sprang into the boat, shouting: ‘‘Hurra for 
America! Hurra for a hundred dollars!” 


He had suited his speech to his auditory, and every man he had selected ii 


sprang in after him and seized an oar. ‘‘ Something to bale with!” cried Ben 
Ham, putting his hands up to his mouth for a trumpet, and Katy threw 
them a tin pail. 


The tide was in their favor, the wind against them. This opposition, 


though the wind had fallen considerably, created a fearful sea. The broad, 
flat-bottomed yawl it would be scarcely possible to upset, but it would 
require the quick eye and hand of a master steersman to prevent her being 
filled by the pursuing waves, and, rowing heavily under any circumstances, 
with the wind against them, their progress must be slow. Mr. Devereux’s 
brow grew stern, his lips compressed, his. eye fixed, as their boat hung on 
the crest of a mountain wave for one brief moment, then toppled down to 
mount the precipitous side of another. Jn the second in which it reached 
the depth between, lay their great danger. They soon encountered another 
peril. They were among the drifting spars and broken timbers of the wreck. 

A collision with a heavy timber would be a fearful trial to their boat. 
He must change his course; he could not steer directly across the waves, as 
he had hitherto done, to prevent her encountering their full power on her 
broadside. With a resolute spirit and a firm hand, though with an eye that 
saw all the danger ; the change was made—they were out of the line of the 
wreck. 

“Look there! It’s Dick Van Dyke!” shouted one of-the men. 

On the very crest of a wave, about twice an oar’s length from their 
course, rose the head of a man—the face turned directly to them, and the 
wild, staring eyes seeming to entreat their aid. Mr. Devereux could not 
resist their appeal, though he saw the danger; the boat veered, and at the 
same moment a huge wave broke over her, and nearly filled her with 
water. There was a simultaneous shriek from the men; but above the 


180 WOMEN OF THE SOUTH. 


hoarse shriek, and the hoarser roar of the waves rose the shout of the master 
spirit—‘ Ham, bale the boat! Use your oars, men—all is safe!” 

The prow was again turned to the wave, and Dick Van Dyke could be 
seen nomore. He must be left to his fate. 

‘‘ Must be the Edward an’ Mary. Spriggins tells me he was gone in her 
to bring his darter back,” said one of the men. pie 

‘What darter—the lady?” asked Ben Ham, who sat nearest to Mr. 
Devereux. 

‘Yes; he an’t got no other darter, as I knows on.” 

‘“O, Mr. Duvo!”—Ben turned to him, but he proceeded no further. 
There was something in that face, in those eyes, which told that he had 
heard and comprehended, and which at the same time rendered any words 
on the subject from another well-nigh impossible. His eyes were fastened 
upon that swaying wreck, yet, as if by a species of intuition, he guided the 
boat unerringly along the only safe course. Thousands of drowning men 
might pass him now—he would not swerve a hair’s breath from the line he 
had marked out. Once only he removed his eyes from the wreck, to glance 
at the rowers. They know it is to hurry them—they see it in his face, 
though he speaks no word—and they bend to their oars. Thus they reach 
the lee of the wreck. There is no time to lose, for the mast is rising and 
sinking with every wave. Mr. Devereux springs from the boat, resting one 
hand upon the low leaning bulwark, and he is on board. The very impulse 
sends the boat off, and a wave dashes over her; but she is brought up again, 
and Ben Ham bales her out carefully, while another man catches a rope 
suspended over the side, and reeves it through the block in the boat’s 
stern. 

In the meantime Mr. Devereux has entered the forecastle. He sees no 
one else; his eye darts at once to that corner where she lies, as we have 
already described her; her white hands folded over the dark grey cloak, 
whose hood is drawn closely around her white face; her eyes are closed. 
Peaceful as an angel’s is the expression of that face. He bends over her, and 
says ‘‘ Violet ’’—there are volumes of tenderness in that one word so pro- 
nounced. Her eyes unclose—a smile soft and happy as an infant’s when it 
awakes in its mother’s arms, parts her pale lips. ‘‘I dreamed you were 
come,” she whispers, as he lifts her in his arms, and her head falls upon his 
shoulder. He bears her out upon the deck, and, without relinquishing her, 
descends to the boat, steadying his steps by grasping the rope with his other 
hand. As he resumes his seat in the stern, he places her beside him, still 


MARIA J. McINTOSNA. 181 


clasping her with one arm, while he prepares to guide the boat with the *: 
other; come what will, they will bear it together. He glances for a moment 
at her as she rests, exhausted almost to unconsciousness, upon him. The 
smile is still upon her lips, her eyes remain closed; she asks not whither he 
is bearing her; she does not even look to see where she is; she is with him 
—with him—that is enough for her. She remembers others, however. ‘Is 
Luce here?” she whispers; ‘‘and Harrington?” He looks around; he sees a 
negro man and woman seated down in the bottom of the boat, and he 
answers, ‘‘ Yes, they are here.” . 

They are upon their homeward way—against the tide now, Every face 
wears an intensely earnest expression; they know that every stroke now is 
for life. Her face is close beside him—her breath fans his cheek—yet he 
never withdraws his eye for a moment from his course; but he holds her 
fast—his now, tor life or for death. Wave after wave rushes over the prow. 
Harrington bales constantly ; they scarcely seem to move, so slow is their 
progress. At length the haven is almost won; but the boat strikes the sharp 
point of a piece of timber, a relic of some former wreck imbedded in the 
sand; there is a sudden crash, followed by a rush of water into the boat; 
even here, just touching shore, the waves may ingulf them, and sweep them 
back. But, no! she has been recognized, and, with a thrilling cry of ‘‘The 
lady! the lady!” the men—eight or ten in number, for many have come 
from Manasquam—join hands, and, rushing down into the foaming surf, 
seize the boat, and drag it with its load on shore. All sternness has vanished 
from Mr. Devereux’s face now. Still clasping his sweet burden to his breast 
he rises and bears her toward the house; but his eyes are blinded by tears, and, 
unable to speak, he grasps in silence the rough hands extended to him as he 
passes. It is his only answer to their hurras and blessings. Every eye is 
fixed upon the pale face resting on his shoulder; and the women sob aloud 
their thanks that she is safe, while men’s voices, husky with emotion, are 
heard uttering a fervent ‘‘God bless her!” 


THE RIVEN HEART. 


A friend! and thine the ruthless part 
To break the bruised reed ; 

Coldly to spurn the trusting heart 
In time of deepest need. 


182 


t 


WOMEN OF THE SOUTH. 


To quench the lingering, quivering ray 
Of Hope’s just dying light, 

Thus spreading o'er life’s onward way 
One deep unbroken night. 


To pour upon the burning brain 
The lava flood of scorn ; 

With careless hand the nerve to touch 
‘“‘ Where agony is born!” 


FROWN NOT. 


Nay, frown not—though the world’s cold look 
My spirit heeds not now, 

I cannot for a moment brook 
A shadow on thy brow. 


Dark clouds may speck the azure sky, 
Yet while in golden light 

The sun looks forth—earth meets his eye 
In smiles serene and bright ;— 


But should some shadow o’er his beams 
A passing vapor throw, 

Quick fade from hills, and plains, and streams, 
The gladness and the glow. 


NO’ MORE. 


Think on’t no more! Say, canst thou chain 
The lightning’s arrowy flash ? 

Or with a silken curb restrain 
The wave’s tempestuous dash ? 


Hast thou a magic wand to lay 
The struggling winds to sleep? 
Or in its mid career to stay 
The fierce tornado’s sweep ? 


MARIA J. McINTOSH. 


These done—yet dream not thou canst bind 
The electric flash of thought, 

Or still with charmed words the mind 
By passion tempest-wrought ! 


ASPIRATION. 


As I watch the stars, I strive and strain 
To fling from my soul the earth-fiend’s chain; 
But its hated links must clasp me round, 
Till a mightier will than his be found 
To set my struggling spirit free. 


A star shed down its silvery light 

On my pearly couch in heaven each night ; 

And well, by its beam serene and clear, 

I knew the spirit I loved was near. 

Oh! for one gleam of his cheering ray, 

To drive earth’s darkening shades away, 
And set my struggling spirit free. 





Star of my life! again—again, 

Thy radiant beams are round me poured, 
- My struggling soul has burst its chain, 

And now, like a joyous bird, I’ve soared, 
Upborne by thy mysterious power, 
To my home of bliss—my heavenly bower. 


Its flowers are fresh with the dews of night, 

Its clouds are bright with the sun’s last gleam, 
And there I sport in thy golden light, 

And win new strength from thy every beam, 
Or sail on the winds in a cloudy car, 
With thee for my guide—my glorious star! 


183 


ALMIRA LINCOLN PHELPS. 


Ir is a somewhat significant fact that, among all our dis- 
tinguished literary women, only two have the honor of mem- 
bership in the American Association for the advancement. of 
Science, and in these two both the North and the South are 
represented. In this connection, the names of Maria Mitchell, 
the astronomer of Nantucket, and Almira Lincoln Phelps, the 
educator and scientific writer of Baltimore, need hardly to be 
specified. 

Samuel Hart, the father of Mrs. Phelps, was a descendant 
of Thomas Hooker, who was distinguished as the first minister 
of Hartford, and the founder of Connecticut. 

Almira Hart, the youngest of a large family, was born in 
Berlin, Conn., in 1798, and began very early to develop a 
fondness for intellectual pursuits. She was for years the pupil 
of her elder sister, Mrs. Emma Willard, a name also well 
known to fame. In 1811, she was placed at the seminary of 
Miss Hinsdale, at Pittsfield, Mass, and soon after married 
Simeon Lincoln, editor of the “ Connecticut Mirror,” in Hart= 
ford. 

Left a widow with two children at the age of thirty, all the 
energy and earnestness of Mrs. Lincoln’s character was called 
in requisition. After settling satisfactorily the insolvent estates 
of her husband and his father, she applied herself vigorously to 
the study of Latin and Greek and the natural sciences, the art 


of drawing and painting, and such other pursuits as she con- 


Oo) 
sidered necessary to a thorough preparation for the work she 
184 


ALMIRA LINCOLN PHELPS. 185 


contemplated—the education of the young. She then passed 
seven years as pupil and teacher in the seminary of Mrs. Wil- 
lard, at Troy. 

In 1831, she married the Hon. John Phelps, a distinguished 
_ lawyer and statesman of Vermont, in which State she resided 
for the next six years. | 

In 1839, she accepted an invitation to preside over the 
Female Seminary at West Chester, Pa.; and in 1841, removed 
to Maryland, where she and her husband united in establishing 
the Petapsco Female Institute, one of the best-planned and 
most flourishing schools of the country. The literary repu- 
tation of Mrs. Phelps attracted hither the daughters of the 
South and West, and no southern State, especially, has ever 
been without a representative in the halls of Petapsco. Even 
from Texas and the extreme bounds of Arkansas and Missouri, 
came pupils who had read the books of Mrs. Phelps, or been 
instructed by teachers whom she had educated, to test their 
scholarship and finish their course at this fountain-head of 
science. 

While engaged actively as an educator, the literary labors 
of Mrs. Phelps were confined chiefly to the revision of her 
works, of which not less than one million copies have been 
circulated. During this period, however, her pen was busily 
employed for her pupils. 

Blending the amusing with the didactic, she wrote stories 
and plays for the holidays, which afforded great entertainment 
to her pupils and their friends. Among her dramatic pieces, 
“Dolly Ann Grimes” and “The Reformation” were often 
repeated and with no little éclat. “Ida Norman, or Trials 
and Their Uses,” was first read in weekly series to the young 
ladies, but has since been published and widely circulated. 

To her former pupils in their distant homes, the salutary 
precepts of Mrs. Phelps recur with great power. Cultivated 


186 WOMEN OF THE SOUTH. 


and disciplined by her system of teaching, encouraged by her 
firm trust in the finer instincts of their natures, they remember 
her earnest appeals with a gratitude that grows and deepens as 
the years roll on. A note which we have just received from a 
young Virginian, once a pupil at Petapsco, pays noble tribute 
to Mrs. Phelps as an educator, author, and Christian. 

In 1849, Mrs. Phelps was again left a widow; and in 1855, 
deprived, by a sad casualty, of an accomplished and affec- 
tionate daughter, whose influence and sympathy had lightened 
not a little her weight of responsibilities, she addressed her last 

“class. of graduates, and, deeply regretted by all, resigned the 
position she had so long and honorably filled. 

But in her quiet and elegant home in the city of Baltimore, 
she still holds herself in tender relation to her pupils, and not 
a week passes without bringing to her a kindly recognition 
from some one of her large family of intellectual daughters. 

Represented in every State of the Union by these flourishing 
offshoots of her mstitution, as well as by her valuable scientific 

‘ works—surrounded by cultivated friends, she retains her 
youthful freshness and vigor, and demonstrates the art—so 
nearly a “lost art” among American women—of “ growing 
old gracefully.” 

It is her greatest pleasure to do the honors of her house 
and heart, not only to her friends, but to all who have any 
claim upon her hospitality, especially to those who, like herself, 
have done the world good service. — 

Mrs. Lincoln Phelps’ published works are as follows : 


** Lectures on Botany.” 

‘Botany for Beginners.” 
“Lectures on Chemistry.” 

‘‘ Chemistry for Beginners.” 

“‘ Lectures on Natural Philosophy.” 
“Philosophy for Beginners,” 


LMIRA LINCOLN PHELPS. “EST 


‘Dictionary of Chemistry, translated from the French, with History of 
the Science.” 
‘Female Student and Fireside Friend.” 


‘“‘ Caroline Westerly,” a juvenile. 


* 


“Geology for Beginners.”’ 

Translation of Madame Necker de Saussure’s “ Progressive Education,” 
with “A Mother’s Journal,” by Mrs. Willard and Mrs. Phelps. 

‘‘ Ada Norman; or, Trials and Their Uses,” 

* Hours with My Pupils.” 

‘“‘ Christian Households.” Published for the benefit of the Baltimore 
“Church Home.”’ . 


Her first publication, which is widely known as ‘“ Lincoln’s 
Botany,” has held its place for twenty-five years as a favorite 
; text-book ; while her ‘‘ Dictionary of Chemistry” is in high 
repute with the erudite as a work indicating much research and 
scientific knowledge. | 

“Female Student and Fireside Friend” was adopted by 
the Massachusetts Board of Education into their ‘School 
Library,” and has been received with great favor at home and 
abroad. 

A supplement to “ Lectures on Botany for Familiar Teach- 
ing of the Natural Science,” is now in press. 

Mrs. Phelps edited for some time the “ Petapsco Magazine,” 
in which appeared various original articles in prose and verse. 

In early life she was much given to poetical compositions, 
but scientific proclivities beginning afterward to aSsert them- 
selves strongly, she very wisely devoted herself to her specialty, 
and secured a distinct and enviable fame. 


A NEW ENGLAND FAMILY. 


In New England, young ladies of education and refinement often take 
charge of parlors, and sometimes assist their mothers in doing,all the 
household work. The many factories in the eastern section of our coun- 


188 WOMEN OF THE SOUTH. 


try, offer employment of an-easy and profitable kind, so that few females 
are willing to engage in domestic service when they can get better wages 
in factories, and live independently as boarders to be waited upon. Thus 
it happens that those who could hire servants are often obliged to do 
their own work; to look after their own houses and to prepare the family 
meals. 

But you should see how these things are managed, for I could not 
otherwise make you comprehend the neatness, comfort, and order which 
are often seen to prevail in those families in the eastern States, where 
the mothers and daughters do the household work. 

Early on Monday morning all are up; the mother, perhaps, engages in 
. preparing the breakfast, while the daughters commence the family’s wash- 
ing for the week. They have, of course, all been careful not to make 
unnecessary washing. Everything is life and activity—the cheerful voice 
of singing from within, mingles with the matin songs of the birds with- 
out. On this day, a simple dinner is provided, which requires little time 
in preparation, but for which labor gives a keen relish. Before the 
devotee of fashion has arisen from her disturbed and restless couch the 
industrious mother and daughters have finished their washing—clothes, 
white as the driven snow, are hanging upon the lines, and the kitchen 
and wash room floors are nicely washed. Everything is put in place; 
our matron and her blooming daughters are dressed for company, and 
very likely either receive some good neighbor, or go out and take tea . 
sociably with a friend. And such teas! The snow-white table-cloth, the 
biscuit or rolls scarcely less white, the honey in its rich comb, the deli- 
cious butter made by fair hands which are perhaps no less skillful to 
play upon the piano than to perform domestic labor; the cake of several 
kinds, the nice preserves, and the exquisite tea; 





this tea not put into a 
teapot musty through neglect, nor decocted with water below the boiling 
point; but made exactly right by the mistress of the house, who esteems 
herself responsible for her housekeeping, and ranks neatness, care, and 
economy among her chief duties. 

While you listen to my description, you think perhaps of a vulgar 
mother and coarse-looking, unrefined daughters ;—would that I could take 
you by clairvoyance to some one of the intellectual and agreeable families 
in New England, where is realized the picture I have drawn of a home 
of comfort and plenty. 

In homes where there are no daughters, or they are sent abroad for 


ALMIRA LINCOLN PHELPS, 189 


education, a young girl as domestic assistant is often received into the 
family, and in many respects treated as a member of the same. She is 
sent to the public school until she has obtained a good common English 
education, rendering in the meantime most useful services to her kind 
benefactors. She becomes an intelligent and useful woman, and perhaps 
marries the son of a neighboring farmer; and in a home of her own, 
practises those lessons of industry and frugality to which she has been 
trained. But this may be rather a picture of past times that of the pre- 
sent. The great influx of emigrants in every part of our country renders 
it more easy to obtain domestic servants, and Bridgets and Noras, with 
their strong hands and red, brawny arms, are relieving their more deli- 
cate mistresses of the burdens they formerly so cheerfully bore. Whether 
this is in reality increasing the happiness of society, is doubtful. The 
feeble, sickly women of our country, drooping and nervous for want of 
exercise, would indicate the negative. 


SOUTHERN HOUSEKEEPERS. 


Most of you young ladies from the southern States are not under the 
necessity of performing household labor. It would be a mistaken kind- 
ness in you to do the labor, and let the menials live in idleness. But 
yet it is well for you to know what labor is, that you can feel sympathy 
for them; besides, your servant may be sick, and humanity may require 
of you to relieve her from duty, even if you should take upon yourself 
the burden of her labor. Though not called upon, in general, to servile 
labor, you are not excused from a life of usefulness. No family can be 
well ordered, or even comfortable, where the care, as well as the labor, 
is thrown upon servants. JI would hope that you have here learned to 
respect the virtues of industry and neatness, and with your other accom- 
plishments, have acquired habits of order and. system, which in future life 
will be more important to you than the merely ornamental branches of 
education. . , 

To woman it belongs to soothe the couch’ of sickness, to minister to 
the wants of declining age, to diffuse around the fireside an air of cheer- 
fulness and comfort, to watch over the wants of a household, and to 
arrange and control in the little empire of home. First, as daughters you 
should learn to minister to your parents, to anticipate their wishes, to 


190 WOMEN OF THE SOUTH. 


study their happiness, even though it call for the sacrifice of your own 
enjoyments. This picture may be far different from the one in your fancy, 
where gay parties with all the excitements of a life of pleasure occupy 
the foreground. But how absurd for any rational mind to consider the 
mere accidental circumstances of life as its business or employment. It 
was said by Hannah More, one of the greatest and best of women of the 
past generation, that, “‘from the manner in which girls were brought up, 
one would suppose that life was a perpetual holiday, and that the great 
object was to bring them up to shine in its amusements and sports.” 

Accomplishments should be valued chiefly for their influence in ren- 
dering the domestic circle more cheerful and refined; most young ladies 
seen to consider them as only intended to gain for them the homage of 
admiration in society. The idea of merely entertaining their parents, 
brothers or sister with their accomplishments would seem unreasonable; 
a loss of time and trouble; a very dull affair. How false, how destruc- 
tive to the happiness of domestic life are such low views of education. 

You disregard the happiness of your parents when you fail to do your 
duty. They are distressed not so much on their own account, as that 
you act unworthily; they perceive in you a low standard of character, a 
mean selfishness, which would seek your own gratification at the expense 
of others; an exacting spirit which is never satisfied with indulgence, 
' and which ever cries, give, give, caring little for the giver, but eager for 
the gifts. May you all be led to consider whether you do not too often 
give your best friends reason to think you are more anxious for the favors _ 
you receive from them than to contribute to their happiness, or to ren- 
der yourselves worthy recipients of their kindness, 


TRUTH AND SINCERITY. 


The essential virtues of a good and estimable character are truth and sin- 
cerity. As counterfeit coin or bank notes are without any real worth, so 
are all affected graces and assumed goodness destitute of any claim to our 
regard. He who counterfeits money is severely punished by the laws of the 
land; the artful and hypocritical are justly chastised by the contempt of the 
good, and avoided by them, as the honest business man would shun such as 
traffic in counterfeit money. But most persons wish to appear good and 
amiable in the eyes of others. How shall this be accomplished? The 


ALMIRA LINCOLN PHELPS. 191 


answer is plain; let all strive to render themselves such as they would be 
esteemed ; to be in reality what they would appear to-be, and then there 
would be no temptation to deceive, or put on the semblance of virtue. 
Shakspeare makes Hamlet say, with honest indignation, “I know not 
seems ;” happy those who are free from all hypocrisy and disguise, all seeming 
~ to be what in reality they are not. t 

There is much in the conventional forms of society which leads to deceit, 
and it should be guarded against. One can be civil and polite without 
expressing warmth of feeling when it does not exist; it is not necessary to 
profess delight in meeting persons for whom we do not feel any particular 
interest ; or to urge such to visit us, or to correspond with us. Are there no 
young ladies who meet others with enthusiastic professions of regard, and 
part from them as if they could not endure a separation, when in reality, 
they can join in a sneer against those intimate friends? and do they never 
use the very confidence reposed in them against the unsuspecting and incau- 
tious? Would that such evidence of duplicity were not but too common 
even amongst those whose youth should be a pledge for artlessness and sin- 
cerity! The educator, like the physician, must examine cases as they are; 
unfavorable symptoms cannot be overlooked if we would do our duty to our 
patients—or our pupils; and, morally speaking, the latter are too often found 
affected by maladies which require firm and judicious moral treatment. 

It is well for the young to resolve to practise what is right, without too 
- much anxiety to please others. The boundaries between right and wrong 
are often obscure. Thus it is right that we should strive to render ourselves 
agreeable to others, to say and do that which will make them satisfied with 
themselves and with us, as far as we can do so without being insincere; but 
there are some who cannot be happy unless.they are flattered; praise is the 
incense which their hearts crave, and unless this is constantly offered, they 
are restless and dissatisfied; but the appetite for praise grows on what it 
feeds, and can never be satisfied. Ifwe have a friend, then, who is not 
happy unless flattered, it is our duty to withhold the poison, and to seek by 
a, sincere and honest treatment to bring her back to a more healthful state of 
mind. For atime we may be the less agreeable to her; it may be that a 
lasting prejudice may spring up against us on account of our sincerity, but if 
so, we should be satisfied that we have done our duty. 

Flattery among school-girls is too common a vice. If one desires the 
love of another, she too often commences by ‘studying her weak points; 
and in how many are these self-love, fondness for admiration, and an 


192 WOMEN OF THE SOUTH. 


“eager desire for preéminence. If the young girl is vain of beauty, the 
flatterer tells her of her personal attractions, what she has heard such a 
one say of her eyes, her features, her complexion, or her form. If she is 
proud of family connections, or fortune, the flattery is of a different kind. 
The flatterer talks of distinguished persons and the advantages of good 
family, wonders how such and such ones should presume to place them- 
selves on an equality with those who are entitled to ewclusiveness, inti- 
mates that she is determined to associate with none but those who have 
certain claims to family distinction; all this, of course, feeds the vanity 
of her who is thus sought out by one who is so very particular as to her 
society. 

Again, another young lady who has no pretensions to beauty and makes 
none as to family or fortune, fancies herself highly gifted in intellect; she 
likes to be told of her talents, and is inclined to love those who praise them, 
or who report the praises of others. 

What a sad picture is that of one rational and responsible being, for 
selfish purposes, acting on the bad propensities of another, where lying, 
insincerity, and flattery are seen ministering to disgusting vanity or pride! 

If you desire true friendship, seek out a virtuous and sensible person, and 
let your intercourse be marked with honest sincerity. Despise that regard 
which must be purchased by a sacrifice of truth, or the ministering to the 
follies and weaknesses of another. One who is truly worthy and noble 
should avoid a flatterer whose selfish designs may be easily penetrated. 
When we hear unpleasant truths, we should reflect that those who utter 
them can have in this no motive but our own good—unless, indeed, we have 
reason to believe that they desire to humiliate us in our own eyes, or to 
render us unhappy; in which case, we cannot consider them as our friends; 
but the poet says: 


‘¢Your defects to know 





Make use of every friend and every foe.” 


It is one of the most sacred duties of friendship, though often a painful one, 
to point out faults toa beloved friend; and when you have an associate 
whom you believe to be your friend, though not afraid to speak the truth, 
howeyer disagreeable it may be to you to hear it, you cannot too highly 
value her friendship. 


ALMIRA LINCOLN PHELPS 193 


BELLES. 


We know full well that nothing is more illusive than the idea of the great 
interest which the world takes in the affairs of a particular individual, and 
that one, a young girl, with merely youth and youthful attractions to recom- 
mend her to notice. For the want of something better to talk about in 
fashionable circles, the appearance of a new candidate for admiration may be 
made a subject of conversation; but will she receive unqualified praise? If 
beautiful, she may be condemned as vain; if graceful, as affected in manners; 
if frank and ingenuous, she will likely be called imprudent; and if cautious, 
artful. If, to be agreeable tothe many, she talk on common-place topics, she 
may pass for one who has a shallow intellect; if she introduce into fashion- 
able circles, literary or religious subjects, she will probably be shunned as 
pedantic or bigoted. . If she should have admirers, she will be called a flirt; 
if she should have none, she will be pitied for her supposed disappointment 
and mortification. Ifthe young lady who has anticipated so much from her 
introduction into the world of fashion, or what is called society, possess 
sensibility and principle, she will soon perceive that there is a competition 
going on there, in its nature calculated to chillthe better feelings of the 
soul ; that under the mask of affected benevolence, and desire of promoting 
mutual happiness by bringing to the common stock pleasure and enjoyment, 
are concealed frightful passions, ‘“‘envy, hatred, and malice, and all uncha- 
ritableness,” from which we daily pray to be delivered. After the labor of 
so many years, such great expense of time and money to gain accomplish- 
ments that may secure triumph and admiration, after the toil and anxiety of 
preparing the person for the public, the young lady, perhaps, finds herself 
receiving far less attention than some one whom she regards as her inferior ; 
innocent, that one may be, of any intentional wrong to her, but mortification 
will naturally give rise to jealousy, which begets hatred. 

Allowing, however, that our young lady is decidedly the belle of a short 
season or two, that she has had a triumphant entrée into the highest circle, 
is regarded as the brightest star in the constellation of fashion, can we sup- 
pose that even for that brief period she is happy? If she possess penetration, 
she will see how heartless and vain are the homage and admiration of those 
who, like the butterfly, flit from flower to flower, selfishly seeking pleasure 
and amusement, wholly indifferent as to the effects of their heartless atten- 
tion upon the future happiness of those whom they may choose to flatter. 


15 


194 WOMEN OF THE SOUTH. 


For it must be remembered that in the world of fashion and folly, are seldom 
found men of true sensibility and scrupulous morals. The game that is there 
going on, forbids such from becoming initiated in the mysteries of ** high 
life,’ where weak principles are tested by the artful and designing, where 
fortune attracts, and where modest merit, unaccompanied by wealth or some ~ 
prestige which is an equivalent for wealth, can find no place. We will sup- 
pose our young lady has become quite accustomed to fashionable life; she 
has gained her place among its votaries—but what has she not lost! Late 
hours, imprudence in dress, exposure to the impure atmosphere of gaslights 
and crowded assemblies, and the cainties of luxurious banquets, at length 
undermine her health. The freshness of youth has faded, her spirits are no 
longer buoyant; she has grasped the thorn, but the rose has withered. And 
the warmth of affection, the simplicity of heart and the conscientiousness of 
principle which were seen in the school-girl, are they, too, lost? We fear so, 
and yet they may have only been blighted; a timely escape from the ways 
of folly, and a return to healthful influences, may revive the affections, and 
rouse the conscience. 

In that career, so deleterious both to the physical and moral nature, the 
aspirant for fashionable distinction, before becoming a victim to the world, 
may be early arrested by the voice of conscience and withdraw herself from 
evil influences, while she has yet the power of regaining, in some degree, 
what she has lost ;—before she shall have suffered the chagrin of being con- 
sidered passée, neglected by the world for which she had sacrificed herself. 
How pitiable the woman of the world, whose seared heart and vitiated taste 
render her incapable of enjoyments which spring from intellectual pursuits, 
or the exercise of the affections! If single, she will be forlorn and neglected ; 
if a wife and mother, how much to be commiserated are those who are © 
dependent for happiness or virtue on her faithfulness or conscientiousness. 














/ 








1A ( LN A141 


MARLON FHATPLAND. / 








MARION HARLAND. 


Popuxariry is not always a test of worth or genius. A tale 
of “love and murder,” that sets every particular hair on end, 
may have a sounding sale, without possessing one element of 
true greatness. But when a story of home life, like “ Alone,” 
or “The Hidden Path,” finds the spring of popular favor, we 
naturally cast about for the secret of its power, and are forced 
to acknowledge a magnetic current from the heart behind the 
book. | " 

Marion Harland has large humanity. Her creations are 
thoroughly human; and by knowing and loving the human, 
she has no difficulty in threading her way into human hearts. 

Mary Virginia Terhune is a native of the Old Dominion, 
whose name she is still proud to bear. Although born in the 
country, the greater part of her life was passed at Richmond. 
Her father, a ‘respected, merchant of that city, is a lineal 
descendant of the Puritans; her mother of the earliest settlers 
of Virginia. The families sacredly cherish the names, deeds, 
and homesteads of their ancestors ; and our author’s hearty par- 
ticipation in the feelings of both the Northern and Southern 
branches, is undoubtedly the cause of her freedom from all 
sectional prejudices. Her liberality of sentiment with regard 
to the vexed question of the day, is one element of her popular- 
ity as a writer. 

At a very early age, the dream of the imaginative child was 
authorship; a hope that steadily grew into a purpose, which 


196 WOMEN OF THE SOUTH. 


was followed up with an energy that never flagged. At the 
ave of fourteen, without confiding to any one what she con- 
sidered a daring project, she contributed, under an assumed 
name, a series of papers to a weekly city journal. The notice 
which these sketches attracted, the conjectures as to their 
authorship, and the commendations bestowed upon them by 
those whose opinion she valued, were precious encouragement 
to the youthful writer. rom that time her pen was never idle, ’ 
though a large proportion of its productions met no eye except 
her own. ‘Tales, essays, and poems, were sent, from time to 
time, anonymously, to the different periodicals of the day, and, 
stimulated anew by the approval of her readers, she wrote and 
studied with greater assiduity. It is well to mention this, as a 
hint to young and ardent aspirants for literary honors, who are 
apt to attribute to natural gifts the vigor of expression and 
grace of style, which are only acquired by diligent practice. 

A fugitive sketch, written by our author at the age of six- 
teen, and entitled, ‘“ Marrying Through Prudential Motives,” 
appeared a year or two later in ‘“ Godey’s Lady’s Book,” and 
had a somewhat remarkable career. From the “ Lady’s Book” 
it was copied into an English paper, thence transferred to a 
Parisian journal, re-translated for another English periodical, 
and finally copied in America, and extensively circulated as an 
English story, until claimed by Mr. Godey as one of his publi- 
cations. 

In 1854, assuming the name of Marion Harland, our author 
sent out her first published volume, whose success, without pro- 
fessional sponsors, or the blast of professional trumpets—sur- 
prised no one more than herself. Long after the first appear- 
ance and furore of “ Alone,’ a new American edition went to 
press, regularly every few weeks, while it was re-printed with 
nearly as much éclat in England, translated into French, and 
found its way into most of the large cities of Europe. 


MARION HARLAND. 197 


Two years later, “The Hidden Path” was brought out by 
Messrs. Derby & Jackson, with equal success, and the addi- 
tional honor of a Leipsic edition, being the only work by a 
female writer in a collection of ‘ Standard American Authors,” 
‘printed by an enterprising house in that city. This is, unques- 
tionably, the most effective book which Marion Harland has yet 
given to the world. ‘The lines of character are fine and true, 
and evince a deepening insight. In Bella Conway and Isabel 
Oakley—noble women of distinct types—the shades of per- 
sonality are admirably disposed for contrast. We own to a 
wicked enjoyment of the analysis and demolition of Snowdon. 
It is done deftly and thoroughly ; we have no tender mercies 
for the benignant face, oily tongue, and foul heart of the 
Pharisee. The story is, perhaps, a little overcharged with 
prominent personages, confusing somewhat the lines of the 
plot; but that is a fault of fullness, not of poverty. The 
book appeals to the best feelings of our humanity, and its 
lessons of self-sacrifice and Christian faith, alone, make it more 
than worthy of its popularity. 

The following generous notice of this work, from the pen of 
one * who judges with the head as well as the heart, discerns, 
in a small space, its best elements : 


“‘ Let this noble production (we use the adjective in its fullest sense) lie 
upon the table, enliven the hearth, be the household companion of every 
true-hearted Virginian. Foster this gifted daughter of the South with the 
expanding sunshine of appreciation, the refreshing dews of praise—stimulate 
undeveloped genius, which has never yet ‘penned its inspiration,’ to walk 
in her steps, emulate her achievements, and share her honors—let Virginia 
produce a few more such writers, and the cry that the South has no literature 
of its own is silenced forever! The ‘Hidden Path’ is a work that North 
or South, East or West, may point to with the finger of honest pride, and 
say, ‘our daughter’ sends this message to the world—pours this balm into 


’ 
* Anna Cora Ritchie. 


198 WOMEN OF THE SOUTH. 


wounded hearts—traces for wavering, erring feet, this ‘Hidden Path, 
which leads to the great goal of eternal peace.” 


In 1856, Marion Harland married the Rev. E. P. Terhune, 
then the pastor of a Virginia church. But amid the duties 
of her new sphere, the pen was not neglected. 

In 1857, her publishers brought out ‘“ Moss Side ” her third 
work. Although it appeared upon the very eve of the great 
commercial panic that for a time paralyzed trade of every 
description, its success was as marked as that of its predeces- 
sors. 

As a magazine writer, Marion Harland’s services have been 
solicited with eagerness and persistency. Her contributions to 
“Godey’s Lady’s Book ”—the only periodical for which she 
has written regularly—would fill a volume nearly as large as 
any of her continuous tales. 

In 1859, her husband was called to the pastorate of the 
First Reformed Dutch Church in Newark, New Jersey, and 
removed with his family to that place. Among the people 
of his new charge, the Southern wife found a welcome so 
warm, and hearts so congenial, as hardly to permit a sigh 
for the birth-place and tried friends she had left behind. 

Another book from her busy pen is in preparation, and 
will probably appear in the autumn of the present year. 

We have seen but few specimens of the poetry of this 
writer, but remember among them two or three that have in 
them the ring of true metal. 

It is said that a more complete refutation of the slanders 
generally heaped upon “ literary domesticity ” can scarcely be 
imagined, than that afforded by the happy home of our author. 
United to a man of ripe scholarship, sound judgment, and tastes 
aid sympathies kindred with her own, she invariably appeals to 
him in all important matters. His is the first reading and only 
revision of her MSS., before they are given into the hands of 


MARION HARLAND. 199 


‘the printer. No less blessed as the mother of two interesting 
children, her lines of life seem to have fallen in sunniest places. 
If it be true that the nightingale sings sweetest with the thorn 
in her breast, and our divinest utterances are born of sorrows, 
Marion Harland may not yet have sounded the depths of her 
capacity. 


CAMP-MEETING SCENE. 


‘Behold Rocky Mount!” said Arthur, pointing to a rising ground, tufted 
by a clump of oaks. 

‘“ Where is the church?” inquired Ida. ‘I can distinguish people and 
horses, but no house.” 

‘“‘ After we get there, I will lend you my pocket microscope,” responded 
Charley. The brown walls of a small building, in the centre of the grove, 
were visible, as the road wound around the hill; but its dimensions were 
as great a puzzle as its absence would have been. Carry came to her aid. 

‘They preach out of doors, my dear.” 

“Out of doors!” this was a charming novelty. 

“<The groves were God’s first temples,’ she repeated softly, and Lynn 
continued the noble lines— 


** Ah, why 
Should we, in the world’s riper years, neglect 
God’s ancient sanctuaries, and adore, 
Only among the ‘crowd, and under roofs 
That our frail hands have raised ?” 


Charley smiled dubiously, but held his peace. The crowd thickened with 
their advance. Horses were tethered in solid ranks to the trees; children 
straying frightfully near to their heels; wagons and carriages almost piled 
upon each other; and men, white and black, stood about everywhere. The 
driver reined up, twenty yards from the arbor erected under the trees. 

‘‘ Drive up nearer, Tom!” said Carry. 

_“ He cannot,” replied Arthur, letting down the steps. ‘‘ Look!” 

There was a quadruple row of vehicles on three sides of the arbor, the 

fourth being, at considerable pains, left open for passage. Several young 


200 WOMEN OF THE SOUTH. 


men dashed to the side of the carriage, with as much empressement as at a 
ball, and thus numerously attended, the girls picked their way through the 
throng and dust. No gentlemen were, as yet, in their seats, and our party 
secured a vacant bench midway to the pulpit. 

** Don’t sit next to the aisle,” whispered Arthur. 

‘“ Why not?” questioned Ida, removing to the other extremity of the plank. 

“Oh! it is more comfortable here. We will be with you again pre- 
sently.” 

“That is not all the reason,” remarked Carry, when he was gone. ‘“‘ This 
railing protects us from the press on this side; and our young gentleman 
will not permit any one to occupy the stand without, but themselves.” 

“Will they not sit down ?” 

‘‘ No, indeed! there will not be room. Then the aisles will be filled with 
all sorts of people, and our dresses be liable to damage from boots and 
tobacco juice.” 

‘Tobacco juice!” was she in a barbarous country! As Carry predicted, 
their three attendants worked their way, between the wheels and the people, 
to where they sat. Charley crawled under the rail, and planted himself 
behind them. . 

*“T can keep my position until some pretty girl dislodges me,” said he. 
“The denizens of these parts have not forgotten how to stare.” | 

He might well say so. A battery of eyes was levelled upon them, wher- 
ever they looked. The tasteful dress and elegant appearance ot the ladies, — 

“sand their attractive suite, were subjects of special importance to the com- 
munity at large.. Although eclipsed in show by some present, theirs was a 
new constellation, and they must support observation as they could. They 
stood fire bravely; Ida was most accustomed to it, and she found so much 
to interest and divert her, that she became unconscious of the annoyance 
after a little. 

‘“‘ Are those seats reserved for distinguished strangers? have we not a 
right to them?” designating a tier in front of the speaker’s stand. 

‘‘ They are the anxious benches,” returned Charley. 

‘¢ Nonsense !” 

““So I think. The brethren dissent from us. Iam not quizzing. That 
is the name.”’ . 

‘‘ The mourners—the convicted occupy them,”’ said Carry. 

‘“* Are they here?” inquired Ida, credulously. It was preposterous to con- 
ceive such a possibility in this frivolous, loud-talking assembly. 


MARION HARLAND. 20] 


‘Not now ;” answered Charley. ‘ But when they crowd on the steam, 
you will witness scores.” 

‘Fie, Charley! it is wicked to speak so!” 

“Tam just as pious asif I did not, Carry. Dll wager my horse—and 
head too—that by to-night, Miss Ida will agree with me, that these religious 
frolics are more hurtful to the cause they are intended to advance, than fifty 
such harmless affairs, as we attended on Thursday night.” 

**T am not solemnized yet,” said Ida. 

“You are as solemn as you are going to be. You may be excited, or 
frightened into something like gravity. Two, three, four preachers! That’s 
what I call-a waste of the raw material. What a flutter of ribbons and fans! 
The congregation reminds me of a clover field, with the butterflies hovering 
over its gaily-colored, bobbing heads. Handsome ladies by dozens! This 
county is famed for its beauty, and but one tolerable-looking man in its 
length and breadth!” 

“Why, there is Mr. Euston—what fault have you to find in him?” 

‘He is the honorable exception. Whom did you think I meant?” smil- 
ing mischievously at Carry’s unguarded query. ‘‘ Art, here, is passable 
Modesty prevents my saying more, as we are daily mistaken for each other. 
The music strikes up;—rather quavering; they are not in the ‘ spirit’ yet. 
They never get to the ‘understanding.’ I must decamp. Those fair ones 
are too bashful to look this way, while I am here.” 

He was on the outside of the rail, sedate and deacon-like, in a minute. 
Unsuited as his remarks were to the time and place, they were less objec- fn 
tionable than the whispers of the ladies who dispossessed him ;—critiques 
upon Susan’s beaux and Joseph’s sweethearts; upon faces, dress and deport- 
ment; a quantity of reprobation, and very sparse praises. 

The preacher was an unremarkable man, who delivered, in a sing-song 
tone, an unremarkable discourse ; opposing no impediment to the sociability 
of the aforementioned damsels, except that they lowered their shrill staccato 
to a piano. The gentlemen whispered behind their hats, notched switches, 
and whittled sticks. The hearers from Poplar-grove, albeit they were gay, 
youthful, and non-professors, were the most decorous auditors in their part 
of the congregation. Another minister arose; a man not yet in his thirtieth 
year, his form stooped, as beneath the weight of sixty winters. The crowd 
stilled instantly. He leaned, as for support, upon the primitive desk; his 
attenuated hands clasped, his eyes moving slowly in their cavernous recesses 
over the vast assemblage. ‘‘ And what come ye out into the wilderness for 


202 WOMEN OF THE SOUTH. 


to see?” he said, in a voice of preternatural sweetness and strength. ‘Aye! 
ye are come as to a holiday pageant, bedecked in tinsel and costly raiment. I 
see before me the pride of beauty and youth ; the middle-aged, inthe strength 
of manliness and honor, the hoary hairs and decrepit limbs of age;—al} 
trampling—hustling each other in your haste—in one beaten road—the way 
to death and judgment! Oh! fools and blind! slow-worms, battening upon 
the damps and filth of this vile earth! hugging your muck rakes while the 
glorious One proffers you the crown of Life!” The bent figure straightened ; 
the thin hands were endowed with a language of power, as they pointed, and 
shook, and glanced through the air. His clarion tones thrilled upon every 
ear, their alarms and threatenings and denunciations; in crashing peals, the 
awful names of the Most High, and His condemnations of the wicked, 
descended among the throng; and those fearful eyes were fiery and wrath- 
ful. At the climax he stopped; with arms still upraised, and the words 
of woe and doom yet upon his lips, he sank upon the arm of a brother 
beside him, and was led to his seat, ghastly as a corpse, and nearly as help- 
less. 
A female voice began a hymn. 


‘“‘ This is the field, the world below,— 
Where wheat and tares together grow ; 
Jesus, ere long, will weed the crop, 


And pluck the tares in anger up.” 
The hills, for miles around, reverberated the bursting chorus, 


‘‘For soon the reaping time will come, 
And angels shout the harvest home !” 


The ministers came down from the stand, and distributed themselves 
among the people, bowed heads and shaking forms marking their path; a 
woman from the most remote quarter of the throng, rushed up to the 
mourner’s seats, and flung herself upon her knees with a piercing ery; 
another and another; some weeping aloud; some in tearless distress; num- 
bers knelt where they had sat; and louder and louder, like the final trump, 
and the shout of the resurrection morn, arose the surge of song— 


‘For soon the reaping-time will come, 


And angels shout the harvest home !” 


MARION HARLAND. 203 


Oarry trembled and shrank; and Ida’s firmer nerves were quivering. A 
lull in the storm, and a man knelt in the aisle, to implore ‘“‘ mercy and pardon 
for a dying sinner, who would not try to avert the wrath to come.” 

Sonorous accents went on with his weeping petition; praying for “the 
hardened, thoughtless transgressors—those who had neither part nor lot in 
this matter ; who stood afar off, despising and reckless.” Again rolled out a 
chorus; speaking now of joyful assurance— 


*¢ Jesus my all to heaven has gone— 
(When we get to heaven we will part no more,) 
He whom I fix my hopes upon— 
When we get to heaven we will part no more. 
Oh! Fare-you-well! oh! fare-you-well ! 
When we get to heaven we will part no more, 
Oh! Fare-you-well!” 


Ida’s eyes brimmed, and Carry sobbed with over-wrought feeling. 
Arthur bent over the railing and spoke to the latter. He looked troubled, 
but for her: Lynn stood against one of the pillars which supported the roof; 
arms crossed, and a redder mantling of his dark cheek; Charley was cool 
and grave, taking in the scene in all its parts, with no sympathy with any 
of the phases of emotion. The tumult increased; shouted thanksgivings, 
and wails of despair; singing and praying and exhorting, clashing in wild 
confusion. 

‘You had best not stay here,” said Arthur to Carry, whose struggles for 
composure he could not bear to see. 

‘‘ Suffer me to pass, Dr. Dana;” and a venerable minister stooped toward 
the weeping girl. ‘My daughter, why do you remain here, so far from 
those who can do you good? You are distressed on account of sin; are you 
ashamed to have it known? Do you not desire the prayer of Christians? I 
will not affirm that you cannot be saved anywhere; ‘the arm of the Lord is 
not shortened,’ but I do warn you, that if you hang back in pride or stub- 
bornness, you will be lost; and these only can detain you after what you 
have heard. Arise, and join that company of weeping mourners; it may 
not be too late.” 

Carry shook her head. 

‘Then kneel where you are, and I will pray for you.” 


She dried her tears. 


204 WOMEN OF THE SOUTH. 


“Why should I kneel, Mr. Manly? Ido not experience any sorrow for 
sin.” 

** My child!” 

‘My tears are not those of penitence; I do not weep for my sinfulness ; 
T can neither think nor feel in this confusion.” 

The good man was fairly stumbled by this avowal. 

‘“‘ Have you no interest in this subject ?” 

‘‘ Not more than usual, sir. My agitation proceeded from animal excite- 
ment.” 

‘‘] am fearful it is the same in a majority of instances, Mr. Manly,” said 
Arthur, respectfully. 

‘“ You may perceive your error one day, my son; let me entreat you to ° 
consider this matter as binding upon your eternal welfare, and caution you not 
to lay a feather in the way of those who may be seeking their salvation.” 

Arthur bowed silently; and the minister passed on. 

Dr. Carlton retired early that evening, with a headache. Mrs. Dana was 
getting the children to sleep; the young people had the parlor to themselves. 
Charley was at the piano, fingering over sacred airs; psalm tunes, sung by 
the Covenanters, in their craggy temples, or murmuring to an impromptu 
accompaniment, a chant or doxology. All at once he struck the chords 
boldly, and added the full powers of the instrument to his voice, in the fine 
old melody of ‘‘ Brattle Street.” Lynn ceased his walk through the room, 
and united his rich bass at the second line; Arthur, a tenor; Carry and Ida 
were happy to be permitted to listen. 

“There!” said Charley, ‘‘there is more religion in that hymn than 
in all the fustian we have heard to-day; sermons, prayers, and exhor- 
tations. Humbug in worldly concerns is despicable; in the church it is 
unbearable.” 

‘‘ Consider, Charley, that hundreds of pious people believe in the prac- 
tices you condemn. Some of the best Christians | know were converted at 
these noisy revivals,” said Carry. 

“Tt would be miraculous if there were not a grain or two of wheat in 
this pile of chaff. I never attend one that I am not the worse for it. Itisa 
regular annealing furnace ; when the heat subsides you can neither soften nor 
bend the heart again—the iron is steel. What does Miss Ida say ?” 

‘That sin is no more hateful, or religion more alluring, for this Sabbath’s 
lessons; still I acquiesce in Carry’s belief, that although mistaken in their 


zeal, these seeming fanatics are sincere.” » 


MARION HARLAND. 205 


“You applaud enthusiasm upon other subjects, why not in religion?” 
asked Lynn; “if anything, it is everything. If I could believe that, when 
the stormy sea of life is passed, heaven—an eternal noon-tide of love and 
blessedness would be mine—a lifetime would be too short, mortal language 
too feeble to express my transport. There is a void in the soul which naught 


but this can satisfy. Life is fresh to us now; but from the time of Solomon 


to the present, the worldling has nauseated at the polluted spring, saying 
‘For all his days are sorrow, and his travail grief; yea, his heart taketh not 
rest in the night.’ I envy, not carp at the joys of those whose faith, piere- 
ing through the fogs of this lower earth, reads the sure promise—‘ It is your 
Father’s good pleasure to give you the kingdom.’ ” 

‘You do homage to the beauty of the Faith, by whomsoever professed. 
I note its practical effects; judge of its genuineness by its workings. For 


example, the Old Harry awoke mightily within me, in intermissions, to see 





Dick Rogers preaching to Carry, threatening her with perdition—she, who 
never in her life committed a tenth of the sin he is guilty of every day. 
He has been drunk three times in the last month; he is a walking demijohn; 
his hypocrisy a shame to his grey hairs. And James Mather—he would sell 
his soul for a fourpence, and call it clear gain. Sooner than lose a crop, he 
forces his negroes to work on Sunday—can’t trust the God of harvest, even 
upon His own day. The poor hands are driven on week-days as no decent 
man would do a mule; he let his widowed sister go to the poorhouse, and 
offered to lend John five thousand dollars, the next week, at eight per cent. 
I have known him ever since I was a shaver, and never had a word from 
him upon the ‘one thing needful,’ except at church. And he was in the 
altar, this morning, shouting as though the Lord were deaf!” 

** Charley! Charley !” 

“Facts are obstinate things, Carry. Next to being hypocritical our- 
selves, is winking atit in others. The church keeps these men in her bosom; 
she must not complain, if she shares in the odium they merit. They are 
emphatically sounding brass.” 

‘‘ Let them grow together until the harvest,” said Arthur. “It is a con- 
vincing proof of the truth of Religion, that there are careful counterfeits.” 

“T do not impeach the ‘truth of religion.” You need not speak so 
reproachfully, Arthur. I believe in the Christianity of the Scriptures, 
What I assail, is intermittent piety ; springs, whose channels are dusty, save 
at particular seasons; camp-meetings and the like; men, who furbish up 
their religion, along with their go-to-meeting boots, and wear it no longer. 


206 WOMEN OF THE SOUTH. 


Their brethren despise them as I do; but their mouths are shut, lest they 
‘bring disgrace upon their profession.’ It can have no fouler disgrace than 
their lives afford. I speak what others conceal; when one of these whited 
sepulchres lifts his Bible to break my head, for a graceless reprobate, I pelt 
him with pebbles from the clear brook.’ Look at old Thistleton! a mongrel, 
porcupine and bull-dog, pricking and snarling from morning till night. <A 
Christian is a gentleman; he is a surly growler. Half of the church hate, 
the other half dread him; yet he sits on Sabbaths, in the high places of the 
synagogues, leads prayer-meetings, and weeps over sinners—sanctified 
‘brother Thistleton!’ He thunders the law at me; and J knock him down 
with a stous stick, St. John cuts ready to my hand; ‘If a man say, I love 
God, and hate his brother, he is a liar!’ I hush up Rogers, with—‘No 
drunkard shall inherit the kingdom;’ and Mather, with, ‘ You cannot serve 
God and Mammon.’ They say I am a scoffer; I don’t care. Now,” con- 
tinued this contrary being, passing into a tone of reverent feeling, ‘‘ there is 
my kind guardian. I don’t believe he ever shouted, or made a public 
address in his life.’ He dives his religion; a child can perceive that the Bible 
is a ‘lamp to his feet; a pillar of cloud in prosperity; a sun in adversity. I 
saw it when a boy, and it did me more good than the preached sermons I 
have listened to since. He called me into his study the night before I left 
home, and gave me a copy of ‘the Book.’ ‘Charley, my son;’ said he, ‘you 
are venturing upon untried seas; here is the Chart, to which d have trusted 
for twenty years; and have never been led by it upon a quicksand. Look 
to it, my boy!’ I have read it, more because he asked it, than for its 
intrinsic value; that is my failing, not his. I have waded through sloughs 
of theories and objections, but hold to it still. Especially when I am here, 
and kneel in my old place at the family altar, hear the solemn tones that 
quieted my boyish gaiety ; when I witness his irreproachable, useful life, 
I say, ‘His chart is true; would I were guided by it!’ No—no—Art.! I 
may be careless and sinful; I am no skeptic.” 

‘‘ A skeptic!” exclaimed Lynn. ‘‘ There never was one! Voltaire was 
a fiend incarnate; a devil, who ‘believed and trembled,’ in spite of his hardi- 
hood; Paine, a brute, who, inconvenienced by a soul, would not sink as low 
as his passions commanded, tried to show that he had none, as the easiest 
method of disembarrassing himself. That one of God’s creatures, who can 
look up to the glories of a night like this, or see the sun rise to-morrow 
morning, and peep, in his insect voice, a denial of Him who made the world, 
is demon or beast; often both. ‘Call no man happy till he dies.’ Atheists 


MARION HARLAND. 207 


have gone to the stake for their opinions; but physical courage or the heat 
of fanaticism, not the belief, sustained them. We have yet to hear of the 
infidel, who died in his bed, 


‘As one she wraps the drapery of his couch 
About him, and lies down to pleasant dreams.’’’ 


“Tt is a mystery that one can die tranquilly,” said Carry. 

“T have stood by many peaceful death-beds,” returned Arthur. “I 
never wish so ardently for an interest in the Redemption, as when I watch 
the departure of a saint. One verse is in my mind for days afterward. I 
repeat it aloud as I ride alone; and it lingers in my last waking thought at 
night : . 
| ‘Jesus can make a dying bed 

Feel soft as downy pillows are ; 
While on his breast, I lean my head, 
And breathe my life out sweetly there.’ ” 


‘“‘ And why do you not encourage these feelings ?”’ asked Charley, bluntly. 
“‘T eall that conviction; a different thing from the burly of this morning. 
You want to be a Christian ; so do I sometimes; but you are a more hopeful 
subject.” | 

‘*T am by no means certain of that. You would never abide with the 
half-decided, so long as I have done. You are one of the ‘violent,’ who 
would take the kingdom of Heaven by force.” 

‘“‘ How strange!” said Charley, thoughtfully. 

“* What is strange ?” inquired his brother. 

‘Here are five of us, as well-assured of the verity of Christianity, and 
God’s revealed Word, as of our own existence; the ladies, practising every 
Christian virtue; Lynn, prepared to break a lance with infidelity in any 
shape; you, like Agrippa, almost persuaded; and I, stripping off the bor- 
rowed plumage of those who have a name to live; yet we will be content to 
close our eyes in sleep, uncertain of reopening them in life; unfit for Death 
and Eternity!” ; 

He turned again to the piano; Arthur quitted the room; Lynn gazed 
out of the window, with working features; Carry shaded her eyes with her 
hand ; Ida felt a cold awe creeping over her. ‘Death and Eternity!’ had 
she heard the words before? how out of place in the bright, warm life they 
were leading! Here were true friendships, tried and strengthened by years ; 


ro 


208 WOMEN OF THE SOUTH. 


young love, joying in his flowery course; refined and congenial spirits; the 
luxuries of wealth and taste; how unwelcome the hand that lifted the drapery 
which enveloped the skeleton! ‘ Death and Eternity !? The spell was upon. 
the scented air; the moon threw shadows upon the grass, as of newly heaped 
graves; and the vibrating chords spoke but of the awful theme! 


MIGHT-HAVE-BEEN. 


She was writing on this afternoon. The window overlooked the ocean 
—purpled and gilded in long, slow-moving lines by the sunset, and dotted 
with white sails. The wind had breathed sluggishly ali day, but as the 
“olowing axle” touched the water, a sudden breeze shivered the broad 
beams. drifting upon the ridges of the waves, into bright-hued pencils, and 
sent the idle craft rocking through the brilliant confusion. 

Isabel closed the desk. Her smiles, so frequent when there were those 
by who prized their light, never visited eye or lip in solitude. She had 
written earnestly—thought and feeling succeeding each other upon her coun- 
tenance; but the sportive grace with which she had worn her priestess’ 
mantle, wasno more. Wrapping it carefully over her heart, she wrought 
diligently—not joyfully. She maintained a stern guard over herself, lest one 
drop of the wormwood of her cup should ooze into those she brimmed and 
wreathed with garlands for others. She was not a sinless creation, imper- 
vious to personal woes. The mortal rebelled at the blight of its best hopes; 
the woman wept over the sadly-vacant pedestal in her heart of hearts. We 
have seen in a nature as noble as Bella’s, one love destroy every trace of a 
former; and this, by a merciful provision of Providence, is a general law of 
foiled or mistaken affections; but Isabella could not look forward to a similar 
consolation. Ter attachment to Frank Lyle had incorporated itself with her 
character and being 





a love as innocent and beautiful as an angel’s; not con- 
cealed—because she saw not shame, but honor init. She had never said— 
‘* The end—what shall it be?” Asthey had always loved one another more 
than all the world beside, they must continue the same through time and in 
eternity. A less refined or more prudent woman would have analyzed this 
feeling, and extirpated it before it had grown beyond her control—Isabel had 
rested, without question or fear, in the conviction that she was as dear to 
him as he was to her. She knew him for her soul-mate; the man’s duller 
instinct erred. Upon her had come the penalty of his mistake, and she bore 
it in silent fortitude. She did not delude herself with false philosophy— 


ag vie. eo oe ee 
PB ETE ee 


MARION HARLAND. 209 


unfounded hopes. She knew that at the close of life—come when it might 
—the deserted chamber of to-day would be as empty as now; that upon the 
walls, the frescoes his hand had painted, would glow as freshly—yet the 
world was not a desert. Looking to God for “strength to live,” she threw 
herself, heart and mind, into the work of increasing the happiness and allevi- 


ating the woes of her kind. Her gift remained—spurned no longer that it 


had been fatal to her most cherished joys, but valued and cultivated as her 
comforter. Her writings gave no evidence of her changed life. She sang 
still—‘t There is hope, and peace, and blessedness in store for you ’”’—and 
muffled the plaintive echo, wailed up from the deep recesses of the woman’s 
heart—‘“ but not for me!” She had no cause to waver in her trust in the 


_ truth and goodness of her brethren; and every page and line inculcated the 


enlarged charity, learned while sitting at the feet of Him, “who spake as 
never man spake ;” and ob! lesson fraught with reproof to thee, murmuring 
misanthrope! who suffered as never man sutfered. 

The world cried, ‘“‘ Happy and fortunate!” the hypercritics and jealots 
composing the minority, “‘ only hoped her prosperity might endure.” Even 
the sharp-sighted and knowing ones, who make an author’s published works 
the data from which they compute the trials and events of his personal his- 
tory—who will have it, that this actual and private experience is the inkhorn 
which feeds the morbid curiosity of their narrow, credulous minds; who find 
no warrant within themselves for believing that one can estimate the depth 
and fullness of human love, by sounding the yet untroubled pool of his own 
capacity for affection—that a nicely-strung and sympathetic instrument may 
yield up strains of melting woe, if the sigh of another’s sorrow is wafted 
across its chords—even they—the spiders among readers—surmised erro- 


neously respecting the minstrel, upon whose harp-strings neither dust nor 


rust ever accumulated. They were as ignorant as the printer, who grumbled 
at a blur in the middle of a racy paragraph. What was it to him that a tear 
had fallen there ? 

The eagle was the eagle yet, although her wing might flag wearily ere 
the eyrie was gained. Such a season was the present. The blended beauties 
of sky and ocean saddened, instead of diverting her thoughts. Year after 
year, Frank had viewed the scene with her; this summer his place was else- 
where. She imagined them both—himself and Alma—she, indescribably 
lovely in her childish glee at having him near her, hanging on his arm, 


gazing into eyes, full and radiant with the most ardent love of his soul—. 


‘Jove she could only measure by hers, which was bestowed upon every 


14 


2G > WOMEN OF THE SOUTH. 


petitioner, and in nearly equal bounties. And swift uprose the foe most 
inimical to man’s contentment—the phantom that oftenest drives the haunted 
one to madness—‘‘ Might-have-been !” 


NEMESIS. 


The first scene was that over which the jesting criticism had begun; a 
chamber in the Castle of Lindenburg, the nun’s portrait hanging against the 
rear wall. A man, habited like an old retainer of the castle, entered from 
the side. He had not crossed to the front of the platform, when a fiery flake 
from above fell upon his head—another and another! and a second actor, the 
‘“Raymond” of the dumb show, rushed forward and tossed his arms in fren- 
zied gesticulation toward the spectators. Simultaneously with his appear- 
ance, was heard from behind the curtain, the startling cry of ‘ Fire!” 

The crowd arose as one man, and there was a movement in the direction 
of the doors. 

‘False alarm! There is no danger!” shouted a strong voice above the 
confusion—and ‘‘ No danger! no danger!” was caught up and repeated by 
many. 

Katherine turned to the quarter from which the first voice came, and 
saw, across the house, the speaker, who continued to vociferate the assurance © 
of safety ; and at his side, just opposite to herself, Malcolm Argyle, his eyes 
eagerly fixed upon the curtain which had fallen at the alarm. In another 
second he had precipitated himself over the low parapet of the boxes into 
the pit, and, as a brighter stream of light flashed through the painted screen, 
the ery of “ Fire!” rang out again, echoed now by groans and shrieks, that 
told the mad fear which seized upon every soul at the certainty of the 
calamity. 

Malcolm had dashed through the crowd in the pit—all besides himself 
rushing to the door—and scaled a pillar into the box where stood the 
Rashleighs—terrified, yet willing to listen to reason—while Mr. Wickham 
reiterated that the best chance of safety lay in presence of mind, and a steady 
yet hasty progress toward the lobby. 

‘The pit!” said Malcolm, imperatively. ‘‘ Lower the ladies, and then 
leap yourselves into the pit! We can reach the outer door before the crowd 


from the stairs blocks it up! Now! now /” 
He laid hold of Katherine’s arm, and she felt, in his iron grasp, how 


awful was his sense of their peril. 


MARION HARLAND. “OMe 

“ T think, sir’”’—began Mr. Wickham. 

‘‘ Tt is no time to think! Jhave thought!” said Malcolm, vehemently. 
“Katherine, will you let me ’”?—— 

A wilder cry of horror, as the forked tongues of flame, with lightning 
velocity, ran along the ceiling, curled and spouted and wrapped themselves 
| over the light boards that panelled the front of the boxes. 

‘There is but one way, now,” and throwing his arm about Katherine’s 
waist, Malcolm plunged into the living current that surged impetuously into 
the narrow, tortuous stairs and lobbies. Lieutenant Calvert caught up the . 
fainting form of his betrothed, and followed; while the two elderly gentle- 
men, breast to breast, fought bravely to win a path from death. Still, press- 
ing as they thought the emergency, they miscalculated the swiftness of the 
triumphant element. The piercing shrieks of the helpless creatures, who 
were in the hindmost ranks, testified that they were already in its scorching 
embrace, when the dazzling, furious glare grew suddenly dull, and a column 
of pitchy smoke rolled along the roof, filled the dome, and, extinguishing 
every light in its downward swoop—fell a black-winged Death, upon the 
struggling mass of human beings. Screams and moans were stifled—stilled ! 
All that was left of vital fire within the inner walls, went out in one 
agonized respiration as the victims entered into the poisonous cloud—hot, 





reeking with oily vapors—as it were a breath from Gehenna itself. 

In the lobbies and upon the staircase, the frantic struggles for life went 
on in utter darkness. Behind, the roaring, surging flame—before them an 
impenetrable wall, and a staircase, piled high and higher with the bodies of 
living and dead! Over these rushed on the trampling, wrestling crowd. 
Strong men climbed upon the shoulders and walked upon the heads of the 
compacted throng that still kept their feet; women were crushed to death in 
the press; children trodden to pieces. Still, the ties of Nature were mighty. 
Husbands upbore wives with superhuman strength; mothers held their 
offspring so tightly enclasped, that the tremendous force of the outward tide 
could not tear them away; and fathers, with arms of stone and thews of 
steel, lifted their sons above the pressure of shoulders and heads. 

Katherine had spoken but once in the dreadful transit: 

‘My father !” 

‘“‘Ts an able-bodied man—you a feeble woman!” 

He had no more breath to spare, even to console her. When the cloud of 
smoke fell, they were still some paces from thes staircase, and at the inhala- 
tion of the noisome vapor, Malcolm felt his stout heart give way. Casting 


VAD WOMEN OF THE. SOUTH. 


his eyes up in the darkness, he descried a faint glimmer of the sky through 
a window. Summoning all the muscular energy that remained to him, he 
threw himself against the lower sash. It fell outward, and the pure air of 
heaven pouring in through the opening, brought back departing life and 
hope to many besides himself. A cry of mingled joy and anguish went up 
from the sufferers, and there was an instant rush in the direction of the 
casement. 

‘‘ Trust me!” said Malcolm. ‘ Your safety is dearer to me than my 
life.” 

Katherine felt herself raised in his arms as he spoke; the cold wind blew 
more freshly over her, and, realizing with a shudder, what was his desperate 
resort, she shut her eyes, as he swung her clear of the building, and let 
her go. 

A pair of stout arms broke her fall. ‘‘ All safe, missis! Bless the Lord!” 
said a tall negro, whose giant frame had not staggered under her descending 
weight. 

“Gilbert! Gilbert Hunt!” called a voice from an upper window. 

The man hallooed in reply, and hastened away. Katherine gazed with 
clasped hands and dilated eyes, upon the casement from which she had been 
lowered. By the light of the flames, now bursting through the roof, she saw 
Malcolm maintain his stand within, against the crazed creatures swarming 
over him; saw him lower one and another quickly, gently as he had done 
her; heard the exclamations of thanksgiving to him and to heaven, as each 
reached the ground in safety. From windows above and below, forms were 
falling :—-some headlong and shrieking; some prone and unresisting; some 
with clothes on fire—and within that funeral pyre were her father and her 
lover—while she must stand inactive—see all—hear all 





and not stir to save 
either! A fiercer, more agonizing yell came from the imprisoned wretches, 
marking, as she afterward knew, the sinking of the staircase, under its 
accumulated load ; and, forgetting the self-command she had, until now, so 
_ vigorously preserved, she cried aloud—‘ Malcolm! Malcolm! O, come to 
me!” 

He heard—sent one hasty, troubled glance over the horrified faces flock- 
ing about the inside of the window—extricated himself from clinging hands 
and crowding forms—and was upon the earth beside her! 

‘““My darling! you are saved! Thank God!” 

He asked not whether he had the right. For one rapturous instant’ he 
held her to his heart, as the fervent ejaculation passed his lips; for one second 


es 


MARION HARLAND. 213 


her arms were about his neck—her head upon his breast—and she started 
up— 

‘My father! Have you seen him ?” 

‘““T waited for him as long as I dared! I trust he has escaped by the 
door. It is not safe to stand here! See!” 

The licking flames, now blent into one vast, quivering, swaying pyramid, 
arose toward the strangely serene sky. There was no more sound of mortal 
woe within those trembling walls. The unequal conflict was at an end. 
The fire-fiend held high carousal where, one short quarter of an hour before, 
peace, and pleasure. and joy—the enjoyment that ‘‘takes no thought for the 
morrow ”—had reigned supreme! 


LOVE ME. 


Thy heart is like the billowy tide 
Of some impetuous river, 

That mighty in its power and pride, 
Sweeps on and on forever. 

The white foam is its battle crest, 
As to the charge it rushes 

And from its vast and panting breast, 
A stormy shout up gushes. 


“Through all—o’er all—my way I cleave— 

Each barrier down-bearing— 

Fame is the guerdon of the brave, 
And victory of the daring!” 

While mine is like the brooklet’s flow, 
Through peaceful valleys gliding ; 

O’er which the willow boughs bend low 
The tiny wavelet hiding. 


And as it steals on, calm and clear, 
A little song ’tis singing, 

That vibrates soft upon the ear, 
Like fairy vespers ringing. 


214 


WOMEN OF THE SOUTH. 


‘Love me—love me!” it murmurs o’er, 


*Midst light and shadows ranging, 


‘Love me,” it gurgles evermore, 


The burden never changing. 


Thine is the eagle’s lofty flight, 
With ardent hope, aspiring 

E’en to the flaming source of light, 
Undoubting and untiring. 

Glory, with gorgeous sunbeam throws 
An Iris mantle o’er thee— 

A radiant present round thee glows— 
Deathless renown before thee. 


And I, like a shy, timid dove, 
That shuns noon’s fervid beaming, 
And far within the silent grove, 
Sits, lost in loving dreaming— 
Turn, half in joy, and half in fear, 
From thine ambitious soaring, 
And seek to hide me from the glare, 
That o’er thy track is pouring 


I cannot echo back the notes 
Of triumph thou art pealing, 

But from my woman’s heart there floats 
The music of one feeling. 

One single, longing, pleading moan. 
Whose voice I cannot smother— 


‘“* Love me—love me!”’ its song alone. 


And it will learn no other! 


MARION HARLAND. 
6 


AT PEACE, # 


A pearly mist, like a young bride’s veil, 
Folds softly o’er the sea; 

And sportsome waves, that all the day, 
Have flashed and danced in glee— 

Each rippling smile now passed away 
With the autumn sun’s red glare— 

Lie hushed—as happy children bow 
At their mother’s knee in prayer. 

The same sweet calm is on my heart ; 
The gently heaving tide 

Bears now no trace of storm that swept 
O’er it in angry pride. 

The surface sleeps all tranquilly 
O’@r earth-born passions’ grave, © 

And a gleam, like that of heaven’s first star 
Is trembling on the wave. 

Father! I thank Thee! though this light 
Be not the roseate hue 

That tinged with fresh and changeful shade, 
My soul when life was new. 

Though the foamy billows bound no more 
In sunbright revelry; 

Nor echo back the tempest’s shout 
And wild wind’s anthem free ; 

Though in the deep, I look in vain 
For youthful visions fair— 

Let the rich pearls of Faith and Hope 
Lie fondly cradled there. 

Oh! may thy love, as twilight dews, 
Upon my spirit rest, 

And still that ray of heavenly light 
Be mirrored in my breast! 


216 


EMMA D. E. N. SOUTHWORTE. 


Amone our impassioned writers, whose crowded and 
pungent lives seem to flow out resistlessly from their pens, 
no woman’s name is more electrical to the popular ear than 
that of Mrs. Southworth. Voluminous as her writings are, 
embracing a wide personal and emotional range, we are told 
that she has never yet drawn upon her imagination for the 
basis of a single character. To this fact may be attributed 
the power of her portraiture, and the spell which holds her 
readers. 

Nothing is so strange as reality; and Mrs. Southworth, in 
bringing veritable men and women from the extremes of her 
observation, and allowing them full scope for self-assertion, has 
laid her stories open to the charge of unnaturalness. Then, too, 
if she has not drawn upon her imagination, as a pervading 
element of her mind, it has surrounded and infiltrated her 
characters. Peculiar circumstances having called into action 
all the fire and force of her nature, she has poured herself out 
through these living media, and their loves and hates have lost 
nothing by the intense attrition. 

She writes with great facility, and dashes off one book after 
another with a rapidity almost incredible. In five years she 
published eleven large volumes, but in doing this, upon the spur 
of necessity, it was impossible to be just to herself. These 
works are full of vigor and dramatie interest, impressing one 


always with that most excellent sense of a superabundance of 
216 


EMMA D. E. N. SOUTHWORTH. a... BEG 


heart and brain in reserve, but they would gain much in a 
careful revision. She excels in her delineations of negro 
character, and her descriptions of southern life and scenery are, 
some of them, inimitable. | 

Emma D. E. Nevitte was the eldest daughter of Captain 
Charles L. Nevitte, of Alexandria, Virginia, and of Susannah 
George Wailes, of St. Mary’s County, Maryland. She was 
descended from families of high rank in England and France; 
through her father, from Charles, Le Comte Nevitte, and, on 
her mother’s side, from Sir ‘Thomas Grenfeldt, a knight of the 
time of James l. Her ancestors emigrated to this country in 
1632, and were conspicuous in the American Revolution. Her 
father, who was a large importing merchant of Alexandria, 
served at the head of a company of volunteers in the war of 
1812, and received a wound from which he never recovered. 
At the age of forty-five, Captain Nevitte married his second 
wife, a girl of fifteen, too young to be separated from her 
widowed mother, who removed with them to Washington, 
where they leased together the spacious house once occupied 
by General Washington. 


Here (says Mrs. Southworth) I was born, on the 26th of December, 1818, 
in the very chamber once tenanted by General Washington. I was a child 
of sorrow from the very first year of my life. Thin and dark, I had no 
beauty except a pair of large, wild eyes—but even this was destined to be 
tarnished. At twelve months I was attacked with an inflammation of the 
eyes, that ended in total, though happily temporary, blindness; thus my first 
view of life was through a dim, mysterious cathedral light, in which every 
object in the world looked larger, vaguer, and more distant and imposing 
than it really was. Among the friends around me, the imposing form and 
benignant face of my dear grandmother made the deepest impression. At 
three years of age my sight began to clear. About this time my only own 
sister was born. She was a very beautiful child, with fair and rounded. 
form, rosy complexion, soft-blue eyes, and golden hair, that in after years 
became of a bright chestnut. She was of a lively, social, loving nature, and, 


218 | WOMEN OF THE SOUTH. 


as she grew, won all hearts around her—parents, cousins, nurses, servants, 
and all who had been wearied to death with two years’ attendance on such 
a weird little elf as myself—yes, and who made me feel it too. 

I was wildly, passionately attached to my father, and even his partiality 
in favor of my younger sister—his “‘ dove-eyed darling,” as he called her, did 
not affect my love for him. But he was often from home for months ata 
time, and all my life was then divided into two periods--when he was at 
home, and when he was gone; and every event dated from one of two epochs 
—joyfully, ‘‘since father came home:” Sadly, “since father went away.” 
But at last my father, who had never recovered from the effects of his wound, 
got a cold, which fell upon his lungs. His health declined rapidly. My joys 
and sorrows now took these forms—‘‘Father is able to walk about!” 
‘Father is sick in bed?” 

My father was a Roman Catholic, my mother an Episcopalidn. This 
accounts for what occurred about this time. One day my sister and myself 
were dressed and taken into my father’s room. We found all the family 
assembled, with several neighbors, around our father’s bed. The priest was 
there in his sacred vestments. He had come to administer the last consola- 
tions of the church to our father, and was now about to christen myself and 
my sister by his dying bed. After these rites of baptism were over, we were 
taken from the room, but not before our father had laid his dying hands 
upon our heads and blessed us. I do not know. how long it was after this, 
or where we were standing, when some one—I know not who—came and 


said, ‘‘ Emma, your father is dead.”” I remember I felt as if I had received 


a sudden, stunning blow upon the brow. I reeled back from the blow an 
instant, unable to meet it, and then, with an impulse to escape from the cala- 
mity, turned and fled—fled with my utmost speed, until, at some distance 
from home, I fell upon my face exhausted, insensible. That is all I remem- 
ber, except the dark pageantry of the funeral, which seemed to me like-a 
hideous dream. I was then about four years old, my sister one year old. 
For months, and even years after, I ruminated on life, death, heaven, and 
hell, with a painful intensity of thought impossible to describe. 

After my father’s death, my grandmother and mother were in very 
straitened circumstances, and found it extremely difficult to keep up the 
style of living to which they had been accustomed. My grandmother had 
some property that brought her in a moderate income; they had besides the 
' house leased, and, for that day, very sumptuously furnished. My grand- 


~ | mother yielded to the advice of her friends, and received a few very select 


i 


EMMA D. E. N. SOUTHWORTH. “DFO 


boarders. But she was a lady of the lofty old school, and never could bear 
to present a bill; so the end of it was she gave it up in a year. 

At the age of six, I was a little, thin, dark, wild-eyed elf, shy awk- 
ward, and unattractive, and, in consequence, very much—let alone. I spent 
much time in solitude, revery, or mischief; took to attics, cellars, and cock- 
lofts, consorting with cats and pigeons, or with the old negroes in the 
kitchen, listening with open ears and mind to ghost stories, old legends, and 
tales of the times when “‘ole mist’ess was rich and saw lots of grand com- 
pany ”—very happy when I could get my little sister to share my queer 
pleasures ; but ‘‘ Lotty” was a parlor favorite, and was better pleased with the 
happy faces of our young country cousins, some of whom were always with 
us on long visits. The brightest lights of those days were the frequent visits 
we would make down into St. Mary’s County, sometimes sailing down the 
majestic’ Potomac as far as St. Clement’s Isle and Bay, where we generally 
landed, and sometimes going in the old family carriage through the grand 
old forest between the District of Columbia and the shores of the Chesapeake. 
We often received visits also from our country kinsfolk — visits of months’ 
and even of years’ duration. 

At this time of my life, rejoicing in the light and liberty of nature, I 
should have been very happy also in the love of my friends and relations, if 
they had permitted it; but no matter! Year after year, from my eighth to 
my sixteenth year, I grew more lonely, retired more into myself, until, not- 
withstanding a strong, ardent, demonstrative temperament, I became cold, 
reserved, and abstracted, even to absence of mind—even to apparent insensi- 
bility. , 

x * *k x ** * x xk x 

Let me pass over in silence the stormy and disastrous days of my 
wretched girlhood and womanhood—days that stamped upon my brow of 
youth the furrows of fifty years—let me come at once to the time when I 
found myself broken in spirit, health, and purse—a widow in fate, but not 
in fact—with my babes looking up to me for a support I could not give them. 
It was in these dearest days of my woman’s life that my author's life com- 
menced. I wrote and published ‘ Retribution,” my first novel, under the 
following circumstances : 

In January, 1849, I had been appointed teacher of the Fourth District 
Primary School. The school was kept in the two largest rooms in my 
house, those upon the ground floor. I had eighty pupils. A few months | 
previous to this, I had written a few short tales and sketches for ‘the 


22.0 WOMEN OF THE SOUTH. 


| “ National Era.” It was while I was organizing my new school, that-Dr. 
Bailey applied to me for another story. I promised one that should go 
through two papers. I called up several subjects of a profoundly moral and 
philosophical nature, upon which the very trials and sufferings of my own 
life had led me to reflect, and from among them selected moral retribution, 
as I understood it. I designed to illustrate the idea by a short tale. I com- 
menced, and somehow or other, my head and heart were teeming with 
thought and emotion, and the idea that had at first but glimmered faintly upon 
my perceptions, blazed into a perfect glory of light, but which I fear I have 
not been able to transmit to others with the brightness with which it shone 
upon myself. No, it was dimmed by the dullness of the medium. My story 
grew into a volume. Every week I would supply a portion to the paper, 
until weeks grew into months, and months into quarters, before it was 
finished. 

The circumstances under which this, my first novel, was written, and the 
success which afterward attended its publication, is a remarkable instance of 
‘‘sowing in tears and reaping in joy ;” for in addition to that bitterest sor- 
row with which I may not make you acquainted—that great life sorrow— 
I had many minor troubles. My small salary was inadequate to our comfort- 
able support. My school numbered eighty pupils, boys and girls, and I had 
the whole charge of them. Added to this, my little boy fell dangerously ill, 
and was confined to his bed in perfect helplessness until June. He would 
suffer no one to move him but myself; in fact no one else could do so with- 
out putting him in pain. Thus my time was passed between my housekeep-— 
ing, my schoolkeeping, my child’s sick-bed, and my literary labors.. The 
time devoted to writing was the hours that should have been given to sleep 
or to fresh air. It was too much for me. It was too much for any human 
being. My health broke down. I was attacked with frequent hemorrhage 
of the lungs. Still I persevered. I did my best by my house, my school, 
my sick child, and my publisher. Yet neither child, nor school, nor pub- 
lisher received justice. The child suffered and complained, the patrons of 
the school grew dissatisfied, annoying, and sometimes insulting me, and 
as for the publisher, he would reject whole pages of that manuscript, which 
was written amid grief, and pain, and toil that he knew nothing of—pages, 
by the way, that were restored in the republication. 

This was indeed the very mélée of the ‘‘ Battle of Life.” I was forced to 
keep up, struggling, when I only wished for death and for rest. 

But look you how it terminated. That night of storm and darkness 


EMMA D. E: N. SOUTHWORTH. OI 


came to an end, and morning broke on me at last—a bright, glad morning, 
pioneering a new and happy day of life. First of all, it was in this very 
tempest of trouble that my “life sorrow,” was, as it were, carried away, or 
Z was carried away from brooding over it. Next, my child, contrary to my 
own opinion and the docior’s, got well. Then, my book, written in so much 
pain, published beside in a newspaper, and withal, being the first work of an 
obscure and penniless author, was, contrary to all probabilities, accepted by 
the first publishing house in America, was published, and subsequently 
noticed with high favor, even by the cautious English reviews. Friends 
crowded around me, offers for contributions poured in upon me. And I, 
who six months before had been poor, ill, forsaken, slandered, killed by 
sorrow, privation, toil, and friendlessness, found myself born, as it were, 
into a new life; found independence, sympathy, friendship and honor, and 
an occupation in which I could delight. All this came very suddenly, as 


after a terrible storm, a sun-burst. 


So much of Mrs. Southworth’s history we give in her 
own words, because in no other way could she be brought so 
palpably before us. Through her sharp, nervous delineations 
we trace clearly the mold of circumstance which gave shape 
and direction to her career; we better understand the growth 
of her weird and vivid fancy; we feed the fiery elements which 
entered into her emotional nature, and became the pervading 
characteristic of her works. 

It is not stated in this sketch that the mother of our author 
was married (a second time) to Joshua L. Henshaw, of Boston, 
and that to him Mrs. Southworth is indebted almost entirely for 
her education. ,Under his culture, vigorous shoots began to 
show themselves in her mental soil, pricking the mold with a 
force and positiveness which augured well for their future growth. 
She was soon a leading scholar in his school, and from that time 
continued steadily to advance. 

Three years after the event which involved her “life 
sorrow,” as she sat, on a Christmas evening, broken in spirit 
and hope, her little ones asleep beside her, suggesting painfully 


D2. WOMEN OF THE SOUTH. 


their dependence, and her slender resources, she at last wandered 
dreamily off into an old tradition of St. Mary’s, which her mother 
had recently related to her; and finding her sad thoughts 
beguiled by its stirring incidents, began to wonder if she could 
not render it, with equal interest, into a tale for publication. 
The trial was made, and resulted in “The Irish Refugee,” 
which was accepted at once by the editor of the “ Baltimore 
Saturday Visitor,’ who very kindly wrote a note of encourage- 
ment to the author. With this new impulse, she soon com- 
pleted a second story, “The Wife’s Victory,” and so entered 
upon her literary career. 

After dashing off a series of tales for the “ National Era,” 
and attracting much attention by the electric vigor of her style, 
writing all this time from an overcharged heart and _ brain, 
without a thought of compensation, she was obliged to put by 
the luxury of the pen, and give all her energies to her school 
and her needle. Her funds were running low, her salary was 
in arrears, winter was approaching, and her heart sank within 
her. At this juncture, she was most agreeably surprised by a 
visit from the editor of the “ Era,” who placed in her hands a. 
generous remuneration for past services, and engaged her as a 
regular contributor. She at once commenced her third story, 
“Sybil Brotherton, or The Temptation,” intending to complete 
it in one number; but it grew attlast to the length of a novel- 
ette, and proved a stepping-stone to the continuous works which 
have since distinguished her. ' 

In 1849, “Retribution” was reproduced by Harper & 
Brothers. In no work of Mrs. Southworth’s do we find a 
stronger stamp of her peculiar genius. Long-pent emotions 
pour through it like streams of lava. Her characters glow 
with the white heat of her own experience. With such ele- 
ments, the book could not fail to place the author at once in the 
public eye. Yet had those elements been retouched and toned 


EMMA D. E. N. SOUTHWORTH. 992 


when the white heat had passed, they would have lost none of — 
their power, and detracted nothing from the fame of the author. 
About this time, she became a contributor to the “ Philadelphia 
Saturday Evening Post,” a relation which she sustained for 
several years with pleasure and profit. 

In five years, dating from the-appearance of “Retribution,” 
she wrote and published the following volumes: “ The Deserted 
Wife,” “Shannondale,” “The Mother-in-Law,” ‘Children of 
the Isle,” “The Foster Sisters,” “The Curse of Clifton,” “ Old: 
Neighborhoods and New Settlements,’ “ Mark Sutherland,” 
“ The Lost Heiress,” and ‘“ Hickory Hall.” Since that time, a 
handsome uniform edition of these works, with the addition of 
two others, “The Lady of the Isle,” and “ The Haunted Home- 
stead,” have been brought out by T. B. Peterson & Brothers, 
of Philadelphia. With the advantage of this attractive presen- 
tation, the books are still having a large and extended sale. 
They have also been translated into French and German, and 
have sold largely in’ London, Paris, and Leipsic. 

Having thus, by her indefatigable efforts, achieved fame and 
competence, Mrs. Southworth removed, in 1858, to a charming 
villa on the Potomac Heights, at the west end of Georgetown. 
Here, for six years, she resided with her children; her home, 
especially during the sessions of Congress, being the resort of 
distinguished people from all parts of the Union. With these 
social privileges, the culture of her children, and her literary 
labors, in which she has ever found her true vocation—with 
rides, drives, and rambles through the romantic country which 
surrounded her, and occasional excursions to the sea-shore, the 
mountains, and our larger northern cities, the years glided by in 
strong contrast with the dark days that preceded them. 

“Fortune favors the brave,” and soon after Mrs. South- 
worth’s removal to this pleasant home, her services were secured 
exclusively for the “New York Ledger,” the bounteous editor 


et WOMEN OF THE SOUTH. 


of that journal, as a matter of course, making the engagement 
the crowning one of her literary career. 

It is pleasant to trace in Mrs. Southworth’s later writings, 
the genial effect of sunshine and sympathy. Her stories are 
still impassioned, but there are no currents that scathe as we 
follow them. This is especially true of the serial ‘“ Rose 
Elmer,” just now being published in the “ Ledger,” as well as 
“ Oapitola,’ which appeared some months since in the same 
journal. The latter fairly sparkles and dances with vivacity ; 
and even the “ villain of the plot,” does his devoir with an unma- 
licious, deprecating grace, that excites in us only a desire to win 
him from his evil way, and make a taking little saint of him. 

In 1859, finding her health failing at last, under the strain 
of constant application, Mrs. Southworth took leave, for a time, 
of “ Prospect Cottage,” and went, with her two children, 
“to recruit under the green shadows of old English homes.” 
That she still lingers is, we trust, a proof that English shadows 
are falling balmily. | 


LADY ETHERIDGE BECOMES A GOVERNESS. 


Laura Elmer arrived in London alone, at nightfall. Leaving the mail- 
coach, she called a fty, had her luggage put on, and directed the driver to 
drive to a house in one of the most fashionable localities in the West 
End. An hour’s ride brought her to within a few blocks of her destina- 
tion. To get nearer seemed impossible, from the long line of carriages 
that stood along the street in front of the house, and stopped the way. 
Every circumstance seemed to indicate that a large evening party was being 
entertained at the house in question. 

Laura put down the window, and asked the driver:: 

‘Can you get no further ?” 

“No, madam : not as yet,” answered the cabman. 

‘“ How- long shall we have to stay here?” : 

‘“Jiimpossile to say, mum. Here be a great crowd, as her la’ship his 
’aving of a ball, or summut.” 


EMMA D. E. N. SOUTHWORTH. 225 


Laura sunk back in her seat, and waited perhaps half an hour before the 
cab drew up to the door, which, standing open, revealed a lighted hall, with 
a supercilious-looking porter, seated in an arm-chair, and several footmen in 
attendance, to one of whom Laura handed her card. 

Laura Elmer was dressed in deep mourning, and muffled in the cloak and 
hood in which she had travelled from Swinburne. But there was in her air 
and manner a certain gracious dignity that seemed to mark her as a lady of 
high rank. The servant that received her card bowed low, and showed her 
up the broad staircase to the door of a cloak-room, where several splendidly- 
dressed ladies were laying off their wrappings before passing into the 
drawing-room. 

Laura saw at once the servant’s very natural error, and turning, said: 

‘“‘] think you mistake me for one of the invited guests, this evening.” 

Even that explanation did not shake the servant’s faith in the high posi- 
tion of the noble-looking woman before him. He glanced at her deep 
mourning, and thought he had found the reason why she was not a guest at 
the gay party. He answered, respectfully : 

‘‘T beg your pardon, madam; if you will be so good as to walk into the 
library, I will take your card up to her ladyship.” 

And the man opened a door on the left, and showed the visitor into a 
spacious and richly-furnished library. Laura seated herself at a table, and 
mechanically turned over the leaves of a folio while waiting the return of 
the servant. 

Presently she heard voices without the door—one was that of the foot- 
man who had carried up her card, and who seemed to be apologizing for the 
mistake he had made. The other was the voice of an elderly female servant, 
who was roundly lecturing the man in the following words: 

‘To carry up the governess’s card to ’er ladyship in the drawing-room! 
I’m ashamed of you, James! but hi never could teach you the difference 
between a lady and a woman. Now I not only know a lady from a woman, 
but among ladies, hi can halways tell a mistress, han ’onorable mistress, a 
lady, a baroness, a viscountess, countess, marchioness, and duchess, the 
minute hi see one, and hi graduate my respects haccordingly. Hand simi- 
larly among young ladies, I can tell at sight a miss, han ’onorable miss, hand 
a lady ; hand likewise graduates my respects haccordingly. Now, a governess, 
James, is not by no means a lady; but his only a person hentitled to no 
manner of respects whatsomedever, except Christian charity, has one may 
say. Now you shall see how I receives this governess.” 

15 


226 WOMEN OF THE SOUTH. 


“Just so, Mrs. Jones; you’ll put her on her proper footing in no time.” 

‘You shall see, James.” 

But Mrs. Jones did not know that there were spiritual hierarchies as 
domirant as were earthly ones, and that in Laura Elmer’s person lived the 
honor-compelling spirit of a queen. 

She opened the door and bustled in, swinging herself from side to side, 
with all the insolence of a pampered menial, and was about to speak, when 
Laura Elmer raised her stately head, and fixed her full, dark eyes upon the 
woman’s face; whereupon the latter immediately, and quite involuntarily, 
dropped a courtesy, and addressing Miss Elmer very respectfully, said: 

‘My lady has sent me to receive you, ma’am. Would you prefer to see 
your room before you take supper ?” 

““T thank you; you may show me to my apartment, and send me a cup 
of tea; that is all I shall require to-night,” said Laura. 

The housekeeper touched a bell, which was answered by a housemaid, to 
whom she said: 

“Show Miss Elmer to the bed-chamber adjoining the school-room, and 
take her up a cup of tea.” 

The girl brought a light, and requesting Miss Elmer to precede her, 
showed the way from the library. 

‘“‘ There, James, you see with what self-respect and dignity hi treat the 
governess,” said the housekeeper, just as soon as the restraining influence of 
Laura’s presence was withdrawn. 

“ Qan’t say as I did, Mrs. Jones,” said the footman, very drily. 

‘You seen, at least, hi kept her at a distance,” said the housekeeper. 

‘‘T see as you kept yourself at a respectful distance, just as I should, if 
any haccident was to throw me in the way of her majesty the queen.” 

‘“Yowre a himperent fellow, and hi shall report you to Sir Vincent!” 
exclaimed the housekeeper, in a fury, as, swinging herself from side to side, 
she brushed out of the room. 

‘““ Well! governess or duchess, I could no more fail in respects to that 
young lady, than I could to Lady Lester herself. Leastways, when I’m in 
her presence; nor no more could you, Mrs. Jones, for all your swinging 
about of your hoops behind her back. Why, she’s grander-looking in her 
plain black dress, than all the peeresses in their velvets and diamonds, as I 
saw hannounced in the drawing-room this hevening,” was the acute criticism 
of the footman, James, as he returned to his post of service in the hall 
below. 


\ 


EMMA D. E. N. SOUTHWORTH. ID 


Meanwhile, Laura Elmer was conducted by the housemaid to her 
apartment, next the school-room, in the third story. 

““ My lady appointed this floor as the apartments of the young ladies and 
their governess, upon account of its quiet and fresh air, and I am directed to 
wait on you and them, ma’am. Is there anything I can bring you with your 
tea?” asked the maid, as she ushered Miss Elmer into the comfortably fur- 
nished and well-lighted bed-room, where her luggage had already been 
brought. 

“‘ Nothing else, ee you. My good girl, what is your name?” 

** Lizzy, ma’am.’ 

‘Nothing, then, Lizzy,” said Miss Elmer, ait off her wrappings and 
bonnet, and throwing herself into an arm-chair before the bright fire. 

And then the excitement that had sustained her through the long 
journey, subsided, now that it was over. There came a strong reaction, and 
she burst into a passion of tears; but not one thought was given to the loss 
of wealth or title; a commonplace woman might indeed have wept bitterly 
for the loss of these, but Laura Elmer could only weep for the greater 
bereavement of her heart. 

*“‘ Tf he had been taken away from me by death, while I yet believed him 
‘to be true and noble, then, indeed, I could have borne it! J should have 
put on mourning and lived through all my pilgrimage on earth’a widowed 
maiden for his sake, waiting for that death which should re-unite us in 
eternal love. But now! but now! he is lost to me forever, in time and in 
eternity !” 

She dropped her face once more upon her hands, and sobbed as though 
the very fountains of her life were breaking up. 

Thus bitterly she wept in her hour of weakness for the false-hearted 
traitor, caring nothing, knowing nothing of the true and noble heart who 
had secretly consecrated himself to her service, and who would gladly have 
shed his blood, drop by drop, to have saved her from shedding tears. 

Not long did her weakness last. She dashed the sparkling drops from 
her eye, murmuring : 

““T must not give way to sorrow for the past. I must struggle through 
my life. J must not murmur at misfortune, but rather thank heaven for the 
blessings that are left. I have lost wealth, position, and my false love; but 
I have left youth, health, intellect, and much acquired knowledge, with 
many accomplishments. These will always enable me to lead a useful life. 
How much more favored am J still than half my fellow-creatures! I will 


228 WOMEN OF THE SOUTH. 


grieve no more, but rather show my gratitude to heaven by a cheerful 
industry in the station in life, which Providence has assigned me.” 

She arose, bathed her eyes, and smoothed her hair, and resumed her seat 
just as Lizzie entered with the tea-tray. 

And after this slight refreshment, Laura Elmer dismissed her attendant 
and retired to bed. She could not sleep. The novelty of her position was 
enough to have disturbed her repose; but this was not all. Accustomed all 
her life to the luxurious stillness of Swinburne Castle, where her own deli- 
cious sleeping-room was blind to light and deaf to sound, she found the noise 
of the London streets a perfect antidote to sleep. All night long there was 
the sound of carriages coming and going, as late guests arrived and early 
ones departed. At length when day broke, and all the rest of the world 
woke to life, London became quiet. 

Laura Elmer dropped asleep, and was visited by a singular dream or 
vision. First there was infused into her soul a delicious warmth and light, 
strengthening as soothing. She was again at Swinburne Castle. The beau- 
tiful and beloved home of her childhood and youth was bathed in the sun- 
shine of a glorious summer’s day. Many loving friends were around her, and 
by her side was one whose kingly countenance seemed strange, yet strangely 
familiar, and whom, in her dream, she loved with a passion as profound as it 
was elevated, as ardent as it was pure. 

In his hand he held the coronet of her ancient house. This glittering 
diadem he placed upon her brow, saying : / 

‘Hail, my beloved! once more Laura, Baronness of Etheridge of 
Swinburne!” 

With the fullness of joy that this diadem inspired, she awoke, and the 
beautiful vision fled. The vision fled, but not its beneficent effect. Charmed, 
strengthened, and elevated, she knew not wherefore, except through the 
influence of her dream, she arose and made her simple morning toilet—a 
plain black bombazine dress, and black crape collar. Her rich and abundant 
black hair, worn in plain bands, was her only head-dress. By the time she 
had completed her toilet, which, simple as it was, occupied her longer than 
usual, for she was quite unaccustomed to waiting upon herself, there came a 
gentle rap at the chamber door, and to her ‘‘ Come in,” entered the little 
maid. 

“Oh! I beg your pardon, ma’am, I thought you would want me to assist 
you,” said Lizzy ; adding, ‘‘ breakfast is quite ready.”’ 

“Show me the way, then, child,” said Miss Elmer. 


EMMA D. E. N. SOUTHWORTH. 2IY9 


The maid conducted our heroine to a small sitting-room adjoining the 
school-room, where a table was laid for the morning meal. 

“The young ladies and their governess take their meals here, ma’am, if 
you please.” 

“And where are the young ladies?” 

“Tf you please, ma’am, Mrs. Rachel will bring them directly.” 

And even as the maid spoke, a respectable, middle-aged matron entered, 
leading two dark-eyed little girls, of about ten and twelve years, by the hand, 
whom she presented to the governess as Miss Lester and Miss Lucy Lester, 
adding : | 

*‘ Now, my dears, this lady is your teacher. You will be very good, and 
not plague her as much as you did Miss Primrose.” 

_ “But I hated Miss Primrose, nurse, and I shall hate this one, too; I know 
I shall,” said the elder child. 

‘“‘For shame, Miss Lester! Go and speak to your governess, as a young 
lady should,” said the nurse. 

The children drew back, frowning and sulky ; but Laura advanced toward 
_ them with outstretched hands, saying: 

““T am very glad to see you, my dears, and I am sure you will like to 
stay with me.” | 

Her voice was so sweet, and her look so gracious and benignant, that the 
children readily met her offered hands, and smiles broke through their sulky 
faces, like sunshine through the clouds. 

The elder one looked up shily into her face, and said: 

‘“‘T am sorry that I said anything to offend you, ma’am; but Miss Prim- 
rose was such a plague! But I will please you!” 

“T hope so; and now shall we go to breakfast?” said Laura, leading the 
little girl to the table. | 

The nurse had left the school-room, and now returned leading in a little 
boy about eleven years old, saying: 

“ And here is Master Percy, if you please, ma’am. He is. to be under 
your charge until his tutor arrives.” 

Once more Laura arose to meet the lad; a fine, handsome, dark-eyed, 
frank-looking boy, who returned her cordial greeting with a look of rea) 
admiration, saying: 

““T am a great boy to be in a lady’s school-room, Miss Elmer: but you 
will find me not at all unmanageable.” 

“Of that I am quite sure,” replied the governess. 


230 WOMEN OF THE SOUTH. 


The boy joined the circle at the breakfast-table, where the children broke 
into a conversation, more remarkable for vivacity than for propriety. 

Laura looked from one to another of her pupils, thinking within her- 
self: 

‘‘ Providence never intended me for.a governess, for I feel not the slight- 
est disposition toward curbing these children’s fine spirits or checking their 
free conversation.” 

When breakfast was over, Miss Elmer took her pupils into the school- 
room, and entered into a preliminary examination of their progress in their 
various studies. This occupied her the whole forenoon, and it was near two 
o’clock when a servant knocked at the door, and being admitted, brought 
the compliments of Lady Lester, with a request that Miss Elmer would come 
immediately to her ladyship’s dressing-room. 

With a mournful smile given to the memory of the past, when as Baroness 
Etheridge, she herself received dependents in her own dressing-room, Laura 
Elmer arose, and attended by the footman, who showed her the way, 
descended to the second floor, upon which was situated the private apart- 
ments of Lady Lester. Laura was shown into a spacious dressing-room, 
with hangings of blue satin, and otherwise splendidly furnished, the walls 
being adorned with the choicest paintings, and the niches filled with the . 
rarest statues, all original or copies of old masters. Many bouquets of 
the rarest exotics diffused a rich fragrance through the air. In the midst 
of this room stood a large Psyche mirror, and before it, in the softest of 
easy-chairs, reclined a fair, statuesque woman, arrayed in a graceful white 
dressing-gown of Indian muslin. At her side stood a small rosewood 
table, with a breakfast-service of gold plate, upon which stood .the 
remains of a dainty breakfast. At the back of her ladyship’s chair stood 
her French maid, engaged in combing out the long, luxuriant, light hair of 
her mistress. 

The first thought of Laura Elmer on entering the room, was: 

“Surely this young, fair, inane-looking woman, cannot be the mother of 
those very vivacious and beautiful little brunettes in the school-room. She 
must be their step-mother, and the baronet’s second wife.” 

‘* Jeanette, tell the young person to come around here, where I can see 
her without having to turn my head,” said her ladyship, addressing her 
Jemme de chambre. 

Laura smilingly advanced, and stood as she was desired, immediately 
before Lady Lester. 


EMMA D. E. N. SOUTHWORTH. 981 


“You are the new governess that Sir Vincent engaged!” she inquired, 
without taking the trouble to lift her languid, snowy eyelids. 

‘“‘ ‘Yes, madam,” replied Laura. 

‘Your name is Miss Elmer!” 

‘* It is, madam.” 

** Well, Miss Elmer, Sir Vincent desired me to see you this morning, 
though { am quite at a loss to know why,” drawled her ladyship languidly. 

‘Perhaps, madam, the baronet wished me to receive your instructions as 
to the best method of managing my pupils,” suggested Laura. 

‘*Oh, nurse Jones could tell you how to manage much better than I 
could. She understands their dispositions.” 

“It is probable, then, that Sir Vincent wished me to receive your lady- 
ship’s directions concerning the course of studies to be pursued by the young 
ladies ?” 

‘‘ Oh, then, he should have sent for you to the library, talked with you 
himself, for he is interested in all those matters, which only bore me.” 

All this time Laura Elmer had stood with her stately form drawn up, and 
her large, dark, starry eyes looking steadily down upon the fair inanity 
before her. 

‘*T am sure I cannot conceive why Sir Vincent should wish me to see 
you,” said her ladyship, in a tone of vexation, and then, for the first 
time, raising her languid eyes to the face of the governess, she asked : 

‘“‘Oan you suggest anything else?” 

Then seeing, for the first time, that queenly form, and meeting, for the 
first time, that queenly spirit shining through the great, calm, luminons eyes, 
she instinctively bowed before it, and involuntary said: 

‘““T beg your pardon, Miss Elmer, for having kept you standing so long. 
Pray take a seat.” 

“T thank you, madam, but if your ladyship has really no commands for 
me, I will ask your permission to return to my charge.” 

“T really do not know that I have anything to suggest to you, Miss 
Elmer. Yet now I think of it, I wish you to tell me, do they make you 
comfortable? I leave all these things to Jones.” . 

‘“‘ Quite comfortable, I thank you, madam.” 

‘Tf you find there is anything that you require for your comfort or your 
happiness, let Jones know ; and if she neglects your orders, inform Sir Vin- 
cent. He bas more energy than I have, and relieves me of all that sort of 
trouble.” 


puis pe WOMEN OF THE SOUTH. 


“T thank your ladyship,” Laura said. “ There is nothing I require for 
my comfort; and, for my happiness, I fear it would be unjust to compel 
poor Jones to provide for that,” she added, mentally. 

Then bidding her ladyship good morning, she retired from her presence. 

In the outer hall, she found herself waylaid by another footman, with 
Sir Vincent’s respects to her, and a request that she would favor him with a 
few moments’ conversation in the library. 

Again Laura smiled to herself, thinking : 

‘“‘Tf the baronet is no more alive to his parental duties than her ladyship, 
this interview will be a mere form.” » 

She was shown into the richly-furnished library, filled with the treasures 
of literature, science and art of two centuries of accumulation, and lighted 
by one tall, Gothic window of stained glass, that diffused “a dim, religious” 
light” throughout the vast room. In a rich, antique chair, beside a writing- 
table, in the centre of the room, sat a tall, stout, very handsome man, aged 
about forty-five. Regular and well-chiselled features, dark grey eyes, heavy 
black eyebrows, a large, well-formed nose, and a full, handsome mouth, 
were all framed in by a luxuriant growth of shining black hair and whiskers. 

On seeing Miss Elmer, he arose with a stately courtesy, and placed a 
chair for her, saying, as he handed her to her seat: 

‘““T requested the favor of your company here, Miss Eimer, that I might 
consult with you upon the subject of your new pupils.” 

Laura bowed and awaited his further speech. 

‘You have, I presume, just left Lady Lester ?” 

“Yes, Sir Vincent.” 

“The delicate constitution, and the numerous social responsibilities of 
her ladyship, prevent her from giving that attention to her children that she 
would otherwise.” 

The baronet paused. He seemed anxious to defend his wife’s indifference 
to her children, yet unable to do so with truth. At length he said: 

‘You have seen your future pupils?” 

‘“‘T have seen them.” 

““T hope, that notwithstanding their very neglected condition, you find 
- them not unpromising subjects ?” 

‘Decidedly not. They seem to me to be unusually gifted, though some- 
what undisciplined,” said Laura, with a smile, adding, ‘“ however, I should 
have informed you, sir, that I have little experience in children, never hay- 
ing filled the situation of governess before.” | 


EMMA D. E. N. SOUTHWORTH. 933 


The baronet looked up in surprise, then drawing toward him an open 
letter that lay on the table, and referring to it, he said: 

“Ah! yes, Dr. Seymour has written ‘that unforeseen reverses have 
placed Miss Elmer under the necessity of seeking a situation in life for which 
she was not brought up, yet, for which her moral and intellectual qualifica- 
tions eminently fit her.’ I must condole with your misfortunes, and at the 
same time I congratulate myself and my children, Miss Elmer.” 

Laura bowed, and remained silent. 

The baronet then went over the list of studies that he wished his children 
to pursue, and in conclusion, said : 

““T hope you will allow me to look into your school-room sometimes, 
Miss Elmer, to aid you by such counsels as my somewhat longer and more 
intimate acquaintance with your pupils might suggest,” said the baronet, 
smilling. 

‘* My inexperience will thank you, sir.” 

And seeing that the interview was closed, she was about to rise, when 
the door swung slowly open, and a figure glided in that immediately arrested 
her attention. 

It was that of a young woman of about twenty years of age, who would 
have been beautiful but for the deathly pallor of her thin face, that looked 
still more ghastly white in contrast with the raven blackness of her hair, 
eyebrows, and large, wild eyes, and her dress of deep mourning. 

The baronet started, changed ‘countenance, and arose in haste and agita- 
tion, and advanced to meet her. 

But she glided toward him, extending her thin, white arms, clasping her 
transparent hands, and fixing her wild, black eyes in an agony of supplica- 
tion upon his face. 

“Helen, why are you here? What is this?” he inquired, in a deep and 
smothered voice, as he took her hand, and led her unresisting from the 
room, 

Feeling it to be impossible to follow them, Laura Elmer retained her seat 
for afew moments, at the end of which time the baronet reéntered the 
library in a state of agitation almost frightful to behold. The veins of his 
forehead were swollen out like blue cords, his nostrils were dilated and 
quivering, his lips grimly clenched, his cheeks highly flushed, his dark eyes 
contracted and glittering, his large frame shaking. He evidently struggled 
to suppress the exhibition of his emotions as he resumed his seat, and, trem- 
bling, dropped his face upon his hands, 


234 WOMEN OF THE SOUTH. 


Laura Elmer felt painfully the awkwardness of her position. It was 
impossible to speak to him, and nearly equally impossible to withdraw with- 
out doing so, while it seemed indelicate to remain and witness the strong 
emotions that he so evidently tried to conceal. 

At length, seeing him deeply absorbed in his own feelings, she softly 
arose, with the intention of gliding from the room, when the baronet, some- 
how perceiving her purpose, abruptly started forward, saying, “I beg your 
pardon, Miss Elmer,” opened the door, and courteously held it open until she 
passed out. 

Laura Elmer retraced her steps to the school-room. 

As she entered she was warmly greeted by the smiles of her young 
charges, who assured her that they had conscientiously occupied the time of 
her absence in devotion to their studies. 

‘“‘ Not disinterested attention, I assure you, Miss Elmer, as we remember 
the old condition of, ‘no lessons in the schooFroom, no drive out in the 
park,’”’ said Miss Lester. 

Laura looked up inquiringly, and learned from the explanation that 
ensued, that the governess was always expected to take her pupils for a daily 
afternoon drive in the park, and that they were now quite ready to recite 
their lessons and prepare for their airing. 

Laura Elmer felt no sort of objection to this arrangement, and as soon, 
therefore, as the lessons were faithfully dispatched, the young ladies’ carriage 
was ordered, and they drove out. 

The park was, as usual at this hour of the day, filled with a brilliant 
crowd in open carriages, of every description, intermingled with gay and 
noble equestrian figures. Laura Elmer enjoyed her drive through the park 
even more than her pupils did, since to her the scene was as new as it was 
interesting. | 

Presently — 

‘“There is Ruthven,” exclaimed Miss Lester, as a young gentleman, 
mounted on a spirited horse, rode up to the side of the carriage, and, lifting 
his hat, said: 

‘Well, young ladies, I hope you are enjoying your drive.” 

‘““Excellent well. Miss Elmer, this is our elder brother, Ruthven,” said 
Miss Lester. 

The young gentleman, smiling at this very informal presentation, bowed, 
and hoped Miss Elmer was well, and not too much incommoded by his very 
unmanageable sisters. 


EMMA D. E. N. SOUTHWORTH. 230 


Miss Elmer reassured Mr. Lester upon that point, and, in doing so, for 
the first time looked up at him. 

He was a fine-looking young man, very much like his father, having the 
same tall and well-proportioned frame, though much less stout than that of 
_ the baronet; and the same dark eyes, and heavy eyebrows, and regular fea- 
tures, surrounded by jet-black hair and whiskers, though his face was less 
full, and his countenance less mature, than that of the elder man. He rode 
beside the carriage, conversing gaily with his sisters, for some time, and then 
suddenly inquired : 

“Ts her ladyship out to-day ?” 

“Tam sure I don’t know. JI have not seen mamma for a week,” replied 
Miss Lester. 

‘“* And poor Helen ?” inquired the young man, lowering his voice. 

‘Hush! for mercy’s sake! you. quite frighten me,” replied his sister, in 
the same low tone, and with changing cheek, and trembling voice. 

The young man sighed deeply, and murmuring, inaudibly, 


‘‘ Her name was banished from each ear, 
Like words of wantonness and fear,” 


turned and rode sadly away. 

A strange, terrified silence fell upon the little party, which lasted until 
they returned home. After an early tea and supper, Laura Elmer retired to 
bed. And thus ended the first day of her new phase of life. 


THE HAUNTED HOMESTEAD. 


I could not sleep! I seldom can the first night in a strange house, and 
this was—such a house! I felt quite alone—as much alone as if the heavy 
sleepers in the next bed were a thousand miles away, for farther still in 
spirit were they. I thought of the isolated situation of the house we were 
in; of the crimes, real or reputed, that had stained its hearth-stone; of the 
superstitious terror attaching to the haunted place; of the hard facts that 
three several families, not reputed less wise or less brave than their neigh- 
bors, had been driven from the spot by supernatural disturbance as yet unex- 
plained; of the coincidence that this dreary night was'the ghostly Hallow 
Eve; then of the superstition that spirits, when they wish to appear to only 


236 WOMEN OF THE SOUTH. 


one in a room, have the power of casting all others into a profound sleep, | 
from which the haunted one cannot awake them, and of isolating their victim 
from all the natural world—even from the very bed-fellow by their side. 
The room was very dark and still—solid blackness and dead silence. It 
oppressed me like a nightmare. At last, when my senses grew accustomed 
to the scenes by straining my eyes, I could dimly perceive beyond the foot of 
my bed, the segment. of a circle formed by the fan-light window, that now 
only seemed a thinner darkness; and by straining my ears, I could faintly 
hear the stealthy fall of the drizzling rain. It was almost worse than the 
first total silence and darkness: for it kept my nerves on a strange gui vive 
of attention. Presently this was over too. The muffled sound of the drizzling 
rain ceased, Yet darker clouds must have lowered over the earth, for the 
faint outline of the fan-light window was no longer visible. All was once 
more black darkness and intense silence, and again I felt oppressed almost to 
suffocation—welcome now would have been the faint fall of the fine rain, or 
the dim outline of the window. I strained my senses in vain, no sight or 
sound responded. I felt the silence and the darkness settling like the clods 
of the ground upon my breast. 

fo0-00-0-0o—! went something. 

Hark! what was that? I thought, starting. 

Hoo0-00-0-0—! 

Oh! the wailing voice of some low, wandering wind, I concluded. 

Whir-irr-rr-r-r—! 

Yes! the wind is rising, but how like a lost spirit it wails. 
« Orr-rr-rr-r-r-r—! 

My Lord! it’s not the wind! What is it? Great Heavens! 

Orr-rr-rr-rr-r-r-7—! | 

I started up in a sitting posture, and bathed in a cold perspiration, 
remained listening, my hair bristling with terror. 

Orr-1r-rr-rr-r-r-r—* Ha—ha—ha !” 

I could bear no more !—springing out, I called— 

‘Grandmother! Grandmother!” 

‘““What’s the matter? Why, what ails the child?” exclaimed Mrs. 
Hawkins. 

“Oh! listen! listen!” 

“Listen to what ?—you are dreaming!” 

“Dreaming, am I? Oh! wait! Listen ’”?—— 

Urr-rr-rr-r-r-r—“ Ha !—ha!—ha! 


EMMA D. E. N. SOUTHWORTH. 237 


It was, as plainly as I ever heard, the sound of the rolling of a ball, fol- 
lowed by a peal of demoniac laughter. 

I turned on Mrs. Hawkins an appalled look. 

She was surprised but self-possessed, and evidently bent on calmly listen- 
ing and investigating. She sat straight up in bed with a strong, concentrated 
attention to the sounds. They came again— 

Urr-rr-rr-r-r-r-e—rattle-te-bang !—“ A ten strike at last !—O's a dead 
shot /” 

“A dead shot !” 

‘A dead shot!” was echoed all around. 

Grandmother calmly threw the quilts off her, stepped out of bed, and 
began to dress herself. 

‘Strike a light, Madeline,” she said. 

“What are you going to do, grandmother ?” 

‘Dress myself and examine the premises.” 

Urr-rr-rr-r-r-r— Ha! ha ! ha!” sounded once more the demoniac noise 
and laughter. - * 

The match-box nearly dropped from my shaking hands, but I struck the 
light. 

The sudden flash awoke Alice just as another sonorous roll of the ball, 
and fall of the pins, and peal of demon laughter, sounded hollowly around 
us. 

‘“‘ Heaven and earth! what is that ?” she exclaimed, starting up. 

‘¢ What do you think it is, Alice?” said I. 

“My Lord! my Lord !—it is the phantoms of the murderer and the mur- 
dered playing over again their last game!” cried the girl, in an agony of 
terror. 

Just at this moment a distinct knocking was heard at the little door at 
the foot of the staircase. 

Alice screamed. ; 

I held my breath. a 

The knocking was repeated. 

‘Who is there?” said Mrs. Hawkins, going to the head of the stairs. 

No answer; but the knocking was repeated ; and then a frightened, plain- 
tive voice, crying : 

‘“‘Ole mistess—ole mistess—oh, do, for the Lord sake, let me in, chile! 
the hair’s almos’ turn grey on my head,” 

“Ts that you, Cassy ?” 


238 WOMEN OF THE SOUTH. 


“Yes, honey—yes, what the ghoses has left o’ me,” replied the poor 
creature, in a dying voice. 

Grandmother went down the stairs and opened the Shy at the foot, and 
Cassy came tumbling up into the room after her. She was absolutely ashen 
grey with terror, and her limbs shook so that she could scarcely stand. 

“Oh! did you hear—did you hear all the ghoses and devils playing nine- 
pins together in our very house?” she gasped, dropping into a chair. 

As if in answer to her question, once more the phantom ball rolled in 
detonating thunder, the pins fell with a loud, rattling sound, followed by a 
hollow shout of triumph ! 

Cassy fell on her knees, and crossed herself devoutly. 

Alice clung in terror to her grandmother. 

I felt that the time to play the heroine was come, and strove to exhibit 
self-possession and courage. 

‘‘ Take up the candle, Cassy, and lead the way downstairs. We must go 
and search the house,” said Mrs. Hawkins. 

‘Oh, for the Lord’s sake don’t! don’t, ole mistess, honey! Don’t be 
a temptin’ o’ Providence! Leave the ghosts alone and stay here, and fasten 
the door.” 

**T shall search the house and grounds,” said Mrs. Hawkins, in a peremp- 
tory voice. ‘Therefore, take up the light and go before me.” 

““Oh! for de Lord’s love, ole mistess! ef we mus’ go, you go first, you 
go first; I dar’n’t; I’s such a sinner, J is!” cried Cassy, wringing her hands 
in an agony of terror. } 

Urr-rrr-rr-r-r-r-rattle-te-bang-ang ! 

“A ten strike! Ho!lho! ho! ho! ho! ho!” again sounded the revels. 

““Hooley St. Bridget, pray for us! Hail Mary, full of grace! Don’t go, 
ole mistess, honey! Oh, stay where you is in safety!” pleaded the old 
woman, clasping her hands. 

‘Nonsense! Hold your tongue, Cassy. If ever there was a woman 
plagued with a set of cowardly simpletons, it is myself. Let go my skirts 
this moment, Alice! .Be silenf, every one of you, and follow me as softly as 
possible,” said my grandmother, in a low, stern voice, as she took up the 
candle, and led the way downstairs. We followed at this order—Cassy 
holding on to her mistress’ skirts, Alice holding to Cassy’s, and I bringing 
up the rear, with carnal weapons in one hand and spiritual ones in the other 
—that is to say, with a big ruler and a prayer-book. 

A chill, damp air met us at the foot of the stairs—nothing else. 


EMMA D. E. N. SOUTHWORTH. 239 


The front hall was empty and bleak. We tried the doors, and found them 
as secure as we had left them, with the exception of the parlor door, by 
which Cassy had entered, and which was onthe latch. Mrs. Hawkins pulled 
it to and locked it, saying, in alow voice, that she wished, while examining 
each room, to keep all the rest locked, that there might be no escape for any 
one concealed in the house, 

First we went into the right-hand bed-room, opening from the hall. It 
was secure, vacant and bleak. We locked the door and drew out the key. 

Next we looked into the left-hand bed-room : it was in precisely the same 
condition. We made it fast in the same manner, 

Then we opened and entered the parlor. This was the bleakest room of 
any: large, square, lofty, totally bare, cold and damp. 

‘Nothing here,” said Mrs. Hawkins, looking around. 

Urr-rr-rr-r-r-r-r-ratile-te-bang-ang-ang / the phantom ball rolled, and 
scattered the nine-pins. 

“Hal hal ha! ha! ha!’ shouted the hollow, ghostly voices. 

They seemed to be in the very room with us, reverberating in the very 
air we breathed, echoing from the four walls around, and from the ceiling - 
above us! 

‘“‘ Jesu Mary!” cried Cassy, dropping on her knees, : 

“Oh! oh! oh!” gasped Alice, clinging to me. 

“This is very unaccountable,” said our grandmother, looking all around 
the room, where nothing but bare walls and bare boards met the view. 

We looked at each other in silence for a few moments, and then Mrs. 
Hawkins said: 

‘Come! let us look into the Gning-room, and then call up Hector to 
assist us in searching the grounds.” 

We passed on into the next room, and locked the door behind us, as we 
had locked every one in our tour through the house. That room was closely 
packed with furniture, over which we had to clamber our passage. 

While we were doing so, once again sounded the detonating roll of the 
ball, the rattling scattering of the pins, and the hollow peals of laughter, all 
echoing around and around us, as it were, in the same rooms. 5 

Alice again seized her grandmother. 

Cassy fell over a stack of wash-tubs, and called.on all the saints to help 
her. 

Mrs. Hawkins ordered Alice to let her go, and Cassy to get up, and me 
to move on. * 


240 - WOMEN OF THE SOUTH. 


She was obeyed. <A great general was our grandmother, and we all 
knew it! | | 

We left the dining-room, locking the last door behind us. We dodged 
the dark, blind alley, sheltered the candle from the drizzling mist, and went 
around into the kitchen and called Hector from above. 

The old man answered, and soon came toddling down the narrow stairs. 

‘“‘ Hector, have you heard those noises?” inquired Mrs. Hawkins. 

‘The Lord between us and evil! I’ve heern, mistess! I’ve heern!” 

‘‘ What do you suppose it is?” 

A dubious, solemn shake of the head was the old man’s only reply. 

““Can’t you speak, Hector? How do you account for those noises? 
~ Come, no mysteries; answer if you can; what are they ?” 

‘ Dead people !” groaned the old man, with a shudder. 

‘“‘ Pooh!” exclaimed Mrs. Hawkins. 

But I could see that even she was paler than usual. 

‘“Come, Hector! There is no one in the house, that is certain. And no 
one can get into it while we are gone, because it is locked up. Now, fasten 
‘up the kitchen, and let us go and search the grounds, and unkennel any 
interlopers that may be lurking there.” 

* We came out and secured the kitchen door, and began our tour of the 
garden. 

As we left the door, our watch-dog ran out to join us. 

This circumstance, while it greatly assisted us in our search, very much 
increased the perplexity of our minds. Had the dog heard the noises that 
had disturbed us, and if so, why had hee not given the alarm ?—or, on the 
other hand, were dogs insensible to supernatural sights and sounds? We 
could not tell, but we were glad to have Fidelle snuffing and trotting along 
with us, confident that if there were a human being lurking anywhere in the 
garden, he would smell him out. So we went up one grass-grown walk and 
down another, between rows of gooseberry bushes, currant bushes, and rasp- 
berry bushes, all damp and drippling with mist, and through alleys of dwarf 
plum-trees, and all along the hedges of evergreen inside the brick wall, and 
past the iron gate, which was still chained, as it had been left, and then 
around in the stable, coach-house, hen-house, and smoke-house, each of which 
we found securely locked, and, when opened, damp, musty and vacant; and 
so we looked over every foot of the ground, and into every out-building, 
finding all safe and leaving all safe; and at last, without having discovered 
anything, we arrived again at the dining-room door. 


EMMA D. E. N. SOUTHWORTH. 9A] 


We all entered, locked the door after us, clambered over the piles of fur- 
niture, and passed on into the parlor. 

The parlor, as I have said, was as yet unfurnished, damp and cold. Yet 
there we paused for a little while to take breath. 

‘There is nothing concealed in the garden, and nothing in the house; 
that is demonstrated. These strange’manifestations must admit of a natural 
explanation ; but I confess myself at a loss to explain them,” said Mrs. Haw- 
kins. 

““Oh, ole mistess, "fess it’s de ghoses, honey! ’fess it’s de ghoses! Me- 
morize how nobody was ever able to lib in dis cussed house!” pleaded 
Cassy. 

“Oh, yes, grandmother, do let’s sit up here all night to-night, and move 
out early to-morrow morning,” entreated Ally. 

‘“What do you say, Madeline?” inquired my grandmother. 

““T say, brave it out!” . 

“So do I, my girl!” replied Mrs. Hawkins. 

“Oh, for de love o’ de Lord, don’t, ole mistess! don’t, Miss Maddy! 
don’t! It’s a temptin’ o’ Providence! leave de ’fernal ole place to de ghoses, 
as has de bes’ right to it!”’ prayed Cassy. 

“Well see about that!” said our grandmother. ‘But come! all seems 
quiet now; we will go to bed, and investigate further to-morrow.” 





“Yes, ole mistess, honey, I knows all is quiet jest now, but” 

Ha! ha! ha! ha! ha! ha! ha!—Ho! ho! ho! ho! ho! ho! ho! 
burst a peal of demoniac laughter, resounding through and through the 
room, and close into our ears. é 

“The Lord between us and Satan!” cried Cassy, dropping the candle, 
which immediately went out and left us in darkness. 

While, peal on peal, sounded the demoniac laughter around us. 

Cassy fell on her knees, and began praying— 

“St. Mary pray for us! St. Martha pray for us! all ye hooly vargins 
and widders pray for us lone women! St. Peter pray for us! St. Powl 
pray for us! All hooly ’postles and ’vangellers pray for us poor sinners!— 
Saint—Saint—Saint—Oh! for de Lor’s sake, Miss Ally, honey, tell me de 
name 0’ that hooly Saint as met a ghose riding on Balaam’s ass and knows 
how it feels!” 

“Tt was Saul, or Samuel, or the Witch of Endor, I forget which,” said 
Alice, whose knowledge of the Old Testament, never very precise, was 
frightened out of her. . 


16 


242 WOMEN OF THE SOUTH. 


“St. Saul, St. Samuel; St. Witchywinder pray for us, as met a ghost your- 
self and knows how it feels.” 

And still while Cassy prayed her frantic prayers, and poor old Hector 
told his beads, and Alice trembled and clung to me, the demon laughter 
resounded around and around us. We were in such total darkness that I 
had not seen Mrs. Hawkins withdraw herself from the group, nor suspected 
her absence until we heard her firm, cheery voice outside near the dining- 
room door, saying, 

‘What can any one think of this? Come here, Hector! Come here, 
children !” 

We all went, expecting some dénoiment. 

Mrs. Hawkins telegraphed to us to be perfectly silent, and to step lightly. 
She turned the angle of the house, and walked up the blind alley between 
the back of the house and the back of the kitchen; when she had got about 
mid-way of the walk, she stopped, and silently pointed to the rank weeds 
and bushes that grew closely under the wall of the house. 

‘There! what do you think of that?” she said in a low voice. 

We looked, and at first could see nothing; but, on a closer inspection, 
we perceived a very faint glimmer, a mere thread of red light, low down 
among the bushes. 

We looked up at Mrs. Hawkins for explanation. 

‘“‘ After the candle fell and went out,” she said, “I slipped out, with the 
intention of exploring again, and this time alone, and in darkness. I came 
up this blind alley, and looking sharply, descried that glimmer of light. 
And now Iam convinced that the revellers, human or ghostly, are below 
there, in that old disused cellar that we were made to believe was nearly full 
of water, and required to be drained. Don’t be agitated, children! take it 
coolly,” concluded Mrs. Hawkins, stooping down to put aside the weeds and 
bushes. 

Just at this moment, another detonating roll of the ball, and scattering 
fall of the pins, and peal of hollow laughter, resounded from below. 

Urr-rr-rr-r-r-r-rattle bang-ang-ang! “Ha! ha! ha! ha! ha! Hol! 
ho! ho! ho! A dead shot!” 

‘““Too late, young gentlemen! Your fun is all over! Your game is up! 
You are discovered! Come forth!” said Mrs. Hawkins, who, down upon 
her knees, pulled away the bushes, turned up the old broken and moldy 
cellar door, and discovered the scene below. 

A rudely fitted up bowling alley, occupying the further end of the room, 


EMMA D. E. N. SOUTHWORTH. 943 


and some eight or ten youths, no longer engaged in rolling balls, but on the 
contrary, standing in various attitudes of detected culpability. 

‘*Come! come forth!” commanded Mrs. Hawkins. 

And they came, climbing up the rotten and moldering steps, and the 
very first who put his impudent head up aaa the door into the open air 
was Will Rackaway! 

** Oh, Will!” exclaimed Alice, reproachfully. 

“ You! Will!” questioned Mrs. Hawkins, in scandalized astonishment. 

‘*No! the ghost of O’Donnegan,” replied the youth in a sepulchral 
voice. 

“* Reprobate !” exclaimed our grandmother. 

‘* Now, indeed, indeed, I was only taking the liberty of entertaining my 
friends in my kind Aunt Hawkins’ cellar. Quite right, you know! Only 
don’t tell father, and I’ll never do so no more!” pleaded Will, with mock 
humility. 

‘“PDismiss your comrades, sir! and come into the house! I shall 
send for your father to-morrow morning,” said Mrs Hawkins in a stern 
voice. 

There was no need to dismiss the intruders; they were climbing up 
the dilapidated steps as fast as they could come, and slinking away with 
averted heads, trying to conceal their faces, which Mrs. Hawkins did not 
insist upon discovering. When they were all gone, Will followed us into the 
house. 

‘“‘ Now then, sir, explain your conduct,” ordered Mrs. Hawkins. 

And Will, with an air of mock humility and deprecation, obeyed. 

The account he gave was briefly this—himself and several other youths, 
sons of very strict parents, who proscribed nine-pins with other games, had, 
out of some old timber and furniture, left of O’Donnegan’s old nine-pin - 
alley, that had been taken down and carried away, fitted up the old disused 
cellar for their games. They had played there recently, every night, with no 
other intention than that of amusing themselves, and of keeping their game 
concealed—with certainly no thought of enacting a ghostly drama; until to 
their astonishment, they gradually learned that these revels were mistaken 
for ghostly orgies, and had given the house its unenviable reputation of being 
haunted—a joke much too good for human nature, and especially for boys’ 
human nature not to carry out. Everything favored their concealment. 
The cellar was reputed to be half full of water, and was long disused, and 
every cellar-window, except the narrow hidden one that they had turned 


244 WOMEN OF THE SOUTH. 


into a door, and nailed up. Besides, the front diyision of the cellar was 
really two feet deep in water, and when there was any risk of discovery, they 
_ had a means of letting it in to overflow the back division, so that their 
fixtures were all covered. Thus for months they had played the double 
game of nine-pins and of a ghostly drama! 


















































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































\ 


EE 
Zs Sh ee Zz 





7 


ROSA VERTNER JOHNSON. 


_ Mrs. Jonnson, whose original name was Griffith, is a native 
of Natchez, Mississippi. When she was nine months old, her 
mother died, leaving her to the charge of her maternal aunt, 
whose child she became by adoption, and whose name she re- 
ceived with a mother’s love and nurture. 

“T have never,” says Mrs. Johnson, referring to Mrs. Vert- 
_ ner, “ known the misery of being motherless, as she has fulfilled 
most tenderly and unceasingly a fond mother’s duty toward me.” 

Mr. Griffith, the father of our poet, was a gentleman of cul- 
tivated literary taste and a practised and graceful writer in both 
prose and verse. Many of his Indian stories—a favorite kind 
of creation with him—were copied into the English journals of 
the day with admiring recognition. He died in 1853, just as 
the rare gifts of his daughter were opening to fame. 

Rosa Vertner’s early childhood was passed at “ Burlington,” 
a beautiful country seat, near Port Gibson, Mississippi, and the 
home of her adopted parents. Her fondness for this place 
amounted almost to a passion. ‘ Here,” she says, “I learned 
to think and feel.” And here, also, she began to give poetical 
expression to thought and feeling. She prattled in rhyme long 
before she could write, and many of her effusions, recorded from 
her lips, are now in the possession of her mother. Amid the 
outside natural charms of “ Burlington,” and the atmosphere of 
refined luxury and a poet-father’s influence within, the young 
Rosa was cradled in the very haunts of the Muses; the spirit 


of poetry was in-born and bred. 
245 


946 WOMEN OF THE SOUTH. 


When she was ten years of age, her parents, with an eye to 
her best interest, sold this beautiful home and removed to Ken- 
_tucky, for the purpose of superintending her education. The 
pang which this removal cost the child Rosa, and the sacredness 
with which the woman Rosa still holds the memory of that for- 
saken ground, is “ bodied forth ” in one of the most dewy and 
fragrant of her poems—‘ My Childhood’s Home.” 

Miss Vertner was educated at the celebrated Seminary of 
Bishop Smith, then at Lexington. Atthe age of seventeen, she 
married Claude M. Johnson, a gentleman of manly character and 
elegant fortune. Since her marriage, she has, until recently, 
resided alternately in Lexington, Kentucky—the present abode 
of her adopted parents—and at her husband’s plantation in 
Louisiana, spending the winter at the latter, and the summer in 
the former place. Of late, however, she has made Lexington 
her permanent home. 

Mrs. Johnson is the mother of six children, two of whom 
have passed from earth, though not from communion with her 
loving spirit, as the poem entitled ‘“ Angel Watchers” most 
tenderly and tearfully attests, It is a smile and tear crystal- . 
lized—the purest gem in her liter ary casket. 

In 1850, Mrs. Johnson became a contributor to the ‘“ Louis- 
ville (Ky.) Journal,” under the name of “ Rosa.” Through this 
medium the greater number of her poems first appeared ; 
although, from time to time, she has contributed also to the 
“Home Journal,” and the principal magazines and journals of 
the country. 

In 1857, her poems were published in a handsome volume, 
by Messrs. Ticknor & Fields, of Boston, and elicited from the 
press the warmest tributes of praise! Ina most generous notice 
of this collection, the editor of the “ Louisville Journal ” says : 

“In the blooming field of modern poetry, we really know 
not where to look for productions at onee so full of merit and 


ROSA VERTNER JOHNSON. 247 


- so free from defect ; so luxuriant and yet so pure. The genius 
of the writer is equally stainless and exact. As regards not 
only the moral, but the literary quality of her productions, she 
has written nothing ‘ which, dying, she could wish to blot.’ ” 

Subordinate to this broader characteristic, but more striking 
to the superficial eye, are the marvellous wealth and delicacy of 
her fancy. The fertility of her conception seems positively 
exhaustless. 

Nor is her genius at all unequal to the higher walks of 
thought and imagination, as witness “The First Eclipse,” and 
“The Frozen Ship.” Whenever she has essayed these loftier 
paths, she has trodden them with signal ease and success. If 
her muse has turned more frequently and kindly to lighter 
themes, it has been owing mainly to the genial and sunny temper 
of her spirit, not to any lack of depth or energy. 

Perhaps, however, the most popular and fascinating quality 
of this writer’s poetry is its complete harmony with herself. 
This quality is obvious even to a cursory reader, who has never 
seen her, from the singular vitality and freedom which pervade 
the simplest emanations from her pen. To those who know 
her, it is doubtless the most resistless charm of her productions. 
Her poetry is not a creation so much as a revelation. It is the 
simple exhibition of the riches of her soul, rather than the 
coining of her subtlety. 

Since the publication of this volume, Mrs. Johnson has 
produced many poems, in which are apparent not only the best 
characteristics of her former writings, but a new depth and 
fervor. It is said, also, that she is engaged at present on a 
romance in verse, which she intends to make the chef-d’auvre 
of a new volume. | 

In many of the works of this writer we see glimpses of a sub- 
stratum of passionate power, which has never yet been stirred. 
A deep fountain was troubled at the death of her children, but 


248 WOMEN OF THE SOUTH. 


troubled by an angel; and her songs only grew more low and 
tender—the mother’s pang lost in the mother’s hope. But it is 
evident that no shaft of agony has yet buried itself in the 
intense selences of her nature. No rankling thorn quivers in her 
emotions—tips her words with arrowy flame—breaks the silvery 
flow of her rhythm with gusts and gleams which will not be 
controlled. Yet this latent force is revealed in the body and 
poise of her writings. 

The singular poem entitled ‘“ Hasheesh Visions” would 
seem to show no lack of impassioned element ; but, if it be not 
the direct inspiration of the drug itself, it has the crazy play and 
prodigality of words evolved from the heights of brain, and not 
from the depths of feeling. 


HASHEESH VISIONS. 


Fiery fetters fiercely bound me, 

Globes of golden fire rolled round me, 
Jets of violet-colored flame 

From ruby-crusted mountains came, 
And, floating upward, wreathed on high 
Like gorgeous serpents through the sky, 
To whose rich coils the stars of night 
Clung and became like scales of light; 
A crimson sea before me blushed, 

To which ten thousand rivers rushed— 
Ten thousand rivers, all of flame, 

And as they hissing onward came, 

Their burning waters seemed to pour 
Along an opalescent shore, 

While, in that red deep, far away, 

A myriad opal islands lay. 

With eager, wistful gaze I turned 

To where their dazzling splendors burned ; 


ROSA VERTNER JOHNSON. 


With fearful struggles, stung by pain, 
Trent my fiery bonds in twain, 

And madly (when my limbs were free) 
Plunged headlong in that lurid sea, 

Whose red and seething billows seemed 
To mock me as they hissed and screamed ; 
While tortured thus, scorched to the bone, 
I drifted on with ceaseless moan, 

Till, near those opal islands cast, 

When (dreaming all my anguish past) 

I grasped a smooth and glittering shore 
In vain, then drifted on once more; 

On, on, till countless isles were past, 

And then a boiling wave at last 

Spurned, flung me from its blazing crest, 
To seem at least one moment blest, 

Upon an isle which seemed to be 

The fairest in that wondrous sea; 

But on its cool and polished shore 

My agony scarce ceased before 

This beautiful and long-sought goal, 

This Eldorado of my soul, 

For which I yearned with wild desire, 
Seemed thronged with skeletons of jire, 
That danced around me, shrieked my name, 
And scorched me with their tongues of flame, 
Till (in unutterable pain) 

I prayed that lava sea in vain 

To bear me from a haunted land, 

To save me from that demon band, 

That seized me with a fiendish laugh, 

And cups of fire then bade me quaff, 

Until the withered flesh all peeled 

From my parched bones, and left revealed 
A skeleton like theirs! a shell, 

Red as the hottest flames of hell! 

Then loud we laughed, and wide and far 
Rang out that fiendish laugh, “ha, ha!” 


249 


250 


WOMEN OF THE SOUTH. 


In every wave an echo seemed, 

Until the sea with laughter screamed ; 
The blazing billows leaped on high, 

And roared their laughter to the sky, 
Whose star-scaled serpents from afar 
Hissed back a mocking laugh, ‘‘ ha, ha!” 
We tossed our flaming goblets up, 

And danced and laughed, till every cup 
Was drained, and still though wrung with pain, 
We quaffed and danced and laughed again, 
Till, faint with agony, a chill 

Of horror seemed my frame to thrill, 

The fire-fiends left me doubly curst 

Cold! freezing! yet consumed by thirst. 
I wore a form of flesh again, 

And cried for ‘‘ water,” but in vain; 

And then an icy slumber fell 

Upon me, till the gushing swell 

Of mountain torrents, in their strife, 
Awakened me to light and life— 

To light and life, for now I stood 

Beside a cool, deep-shaded flood 

Upon a shore so passing fair, 

Its beauty brightened my despair 

A moment, while the hope was nursed 
That I might quench my frantic thirst. 
Enchanting pictures! bright and fine, 
Enamelled on my heart they shine; 

That fresh green shore, that clear deep tide, 
Whose waves o’er rocks of sapphire glide, 
Until at last, with wildest leap, 

Into a gulf more broad and deep 

Than ten Niagaras swift they whirl 

O’er crystal spars and crags of pearl! 

But lo! when on that moss-grown brink 
I stooped my aching head to drink, 

And sinking there a lotus-cup, 

Raised it in trembling gladness up, 


ROSA VERTNER JOHNSON. 951 


My parching lips gave forth a groan 

To find the water turned to stone / 

A. chalice heaped with sapphires bright, 
To mock me with their liquid light, 
Jewels a king might proudly wear, 

But which I cursed in my despair, 

And then with bitter anguish, flung 
Back to the tide from which they sprung. 
The lotus bloom I would have torn 

To atoms, but (as if in scorn, 

Of my fierce rage, by some weird power) 
I found an alabaster flower, 

Whose leaves and stem with matchless sheen 
Of emerald seemed superbly green. 

I climbed along the crags of pearl, 

To head the waters in their whirl. 

But when I bent in madness down 

To wherg the white spray, like a crown 
Of glory on the torrent gleamed, 

(Though o’er my brow its moisture streamed,) 
With lips apart that longed to feel 

A dewy freshness through them steal, 
Upon my parched and swollen tongue 

A shower of diamond gems was flung. 
‘Oh! what were gems to one who yearned 
For water-drops, and would have spurned 
Their wealth, to sip the dew that sleeps 
Within the hair-bells’ azure deeps ? 

Upon the shore again I rushed, 

Where countless fruits in beauty blushed, 
Pomegranates, rare and ripe, and one, 
Whose rind was rifted by the sun, 
Revealed unto my ravished sight 

The crimson pulp—Oh! what delight 

I felt, as quick, with throbbing heart, 

I tore it eagerly apart, 

Expecting then the fruity seed 

With red and luscious juice to bleed, 


202 


WOMEN OF THE SOUTH. 


Like those, which, at the far off South, 
Distilled their sweetness in my mouth, 
Long, long ago, when as a child, 

By Hope and Love and Joy beguiled, 

My trusting heart had never grieved 

To find itself at last deceived. 

But in that strange enchanted rind 

No liquid sweetness did I find, 

Which (tempting while it half concealed) 
A mass of rubies now revealed, 

Of royal rubies, flashing there 

To mock, and madden my despair. 

I plucked an orange, when behold! 
Within my hand it turned to gold; 

And when from loaded vines I tore 

The purple grapes, that seemed to pour 
Their honeyed juices on the ground, 
Clusters of amethysts I found. 

If in a desert I had been, : 

Where gushing waters are not seen, 

Nor luscious fruits (to tempt in vain), 
Less terrible had been the pain 

Of my fierce thirst; and as I cried 

For ‘‘ water,” fair forms seemed to glide 
Beneath those haunted groves, who quaffed 
From crystal cups bright draughts, and laughed 
Derisive laughter—soft and clear, 

As they approached me—near—so near 

I almost caught their goblets bright, 
When swift they turned in sudden flight, 
And from afar, pealed forth those swells 
Of laughter clear as silver bells. 

Then others came, more fair, who reaped 
The dripping vines, and gaily heaped 
Each one within a jasper urn 

Her stores of grapes, which seemed to turn 
Beneath their hands to sparkling wine, 
While useless gems they shone in mine. 


ROSA VERTNER JOHNSON. 953 


A vintage by a river’s brink! 

Yet no one offered me a drink 

Of wine or water, and ere long 

The chorus of a vintage song 

Came stealing to me, whence those maids 
Had vanished ’mid ambrosial shades. 

In quick pursuit, I followed where 
Their voices rippled through the air, 
Till blind with anguish—cold as death, 
Chilled (by the south wind’s balmy breath), 
Yet burnt by torturing thirst within, 
Fiercer than memories of sin, 

Beneath that lustrous summer sky, 

I laid me down and prayed to die. 

But vainly rose my mournful prayer, 
The “ King of Terrors” came not there; 
And sudden darkness, like a spell, 
Appalling darkness round me fell, 
Which reft the earth of light and bloom, 
And steeped my soul in utter gloom. 

I started up—the sun had set, 

The torrent poured o’er crags of jet 

Its inky waters—and o’er all 

A black sky hung its funeral pall— 

‘So black, the clouds that floated by 
Seemed atoms rifted from the sky. 
Black barks befcre me seemed to glide, 
Whose sails were blacker than the tide, 
Peopled by wild and frantic gholes, 
Strange skeletons, as black as coals, 
Who on those ghostly decks had met 
To quaff black blood from cups of jet. 
The land J found so bright and warm, 
Seemed stricken by ascathing storm ; 
Its fruits and flowers of late so fair, 
Hung now like ebon cinders there, 

And groves which erst were green as spring, 
Looked blacker than the raven’s wing ; 


954 


WOMEN OF THE SOUTH. 


So freezing cold the wind had grown, 

I seemed within the frozen zone, 

And snow came drifting to the earth, 
Black as the clouds that gave it birth. 

I saw it al/—though wrapped in night— 


- Plainly as if revealed by light, 


That rayless, dense, unbroken gloom 

Was suffocating as the tomb 

To those who from long trances wake, 
And strive their coffin-lids to break, 
(Discovered, when too late to save) 

Who slept, to wake within the grave / 
Their agony, though keen, is brief, 

But death came not to my relief, 

And years of bitter pain they seemed, 
Those torturing hours through which I dreamed. 
Upon that cold and dismal brink 

I stooped my head and strove to drink 
The murky waves, when through the dark 
Came gliding up a spectral bark ; 

I climbed the deck, where demons stood, 
And quenched iny thirst at last, in blood / 
They pledged me in that draught accurst, 
And still I drank, to quench my thirst, 
Unmindful that our black bark swept 

To where those maddened waters leapt, 
Into that fathomless abyss, 

Until I heard them scream and hiss 
Within my ears—on, on we dashed, 

While ’mid those jetty crags loud crashed 
Our sinking ship—on, on we rushed, 

Till masts and timbers all were crushed, 
When, blind with blackness, ’mid the roar 
Of inky waves, I heard no more. 


ROSA VERTNER JOHNSON. 255 


MY CHILDHOOD’S HOME, 


SUGGESTED BY AN EXQUISITE BOUQUET SENT TO ME DURING A SEVERE 
ILLNESS. 


Oh! let them touch my burning brow, 
The petals of those dewy flowers, 
And let my spirit wander now, 
Back through a mist of bygone hours, 
To a sunny spot, in a far-off clime, 
Where I used to rove in my childhood’s time. 


My childhood’s home! how like a spell 
Thy dear and sacred memory lies 
Within my heart—as in a well 
The trembling light of starry skies, 
Gleams through its crystal depths at even, 
Until they seem a second heaven. 


And a sweet breath of southern air 
Seems stealing gently by me now— 

The same that stirred my sunny hair, 
And blew the bonnet from my brow— 

Long, long ago, when I had gone 

To gather flowers at early dawn. 


Again, with many a joyous bound, 
My tiny footsteps swiftly pass 
Where golden buttercups were found 
Half hidden ’mid the rustling grass, 
And violets from the soft, green sod 
Seemed meekly looking up to God. 
¥ 
There often have I paused to hear 
The bee his drowsy matin sing, 
Too gay and guileless then to fear 
That honey-bees perchance might sting ; 


256 


WOMEN OF THE SOUTH. 


My heart was all too fresh and warm 
To think of ill, or shrink from harm. 


And now along the good old hall 
Is scattered half my fragrant store, 
For I have heard my mother’s call, 
And, dancing through the open door, 
Her morning kiss I fondly meet, 
And fling my treasures at her feet. 


Then, with a light and stealthy tread, 
I steal behind my father’s chair, 
To fling a garland o’er his head, 
And twine it ’mid the silvery hair, 
Till every rose with dewy glow 
Seems blushing ’neath a drift of snow. 


And now once more I seem to stand 
Where long, dark shadows round me sweep, 
My gipsy bonnet in my hand, 
For the full sunlight dared not creep, 
With all its glittering pomp, between 
Those twining boughs of evergreen. 


I loved the gay, glad things of earth, 

The sunshine, birds, and streams, and flowers, 
Yet would I hush my childhood mirth, 

And through those dim, sequestered bowers, 
In solitude, delight to steal,— 


Twas there I learned to think and feel. 


And oft ve spread a banquet fair, 
Of acorn-cup and rose-leaves bright, 
That fairies might assemble there 
To revel in the pale moonlight ; 
I loved to dream of mysteries 
Beneath those dark ancestral trees. 


ROSA VERTNER JOHNSON. 257 


That homestead is in ruins laid ; 

Its fairest blossoms now are dead ; 
Yet still their deep and solemn shade 
Upon the waving grass is shed ; 

Thus often sunshine will depart 
But shadows linger on the heart. 


And now when fever wildly burns 
Within this sad and aching breast, 
My spirit through the past returns, 
Beneath that peaceful grave to rest ; 
There Love a ceaseless vigil keeps, 
And pensive Memory sometimes weeps. 


The nestling of a wild bird’s wings, 
A star, a flower, a gush of rain, 
The sight of sad or joyous things, 
“Oft make me seem a child again : 
With voiceless eloquence they come, 
Bright phantoms of my childhood’s home, 


ANGEL WATCHERS. 


Angel faces watch my pillow, angel voices haunt my sleep, 

And upon the winds of midnight shining pinions round me sweep; 
Floating downward on the starlight two bright infant forms I see, 

They are mine, my own bright darlings, come from Heaven to visit me, 


Earthly children smile upon me, but those little ones above 

Were the first to stir the fountains of a mother’s deathless love ; 

And, as now they watch my slumber, while their soft eyes on me shine, 
God forgive a mortal yearning still to call His angels mine. 

Earthly children fondly call me, but no mortal voice can seem 

Sweet as those that whisper “‘ Mother!” *mid the glories of my dream: 
Years will pass, and earthly prattlers cease perchance to lisp my name, 


But my angel babies’ accents shall be evermore the same. 
17 


258 WOMEN OF THE SOUTH. 


And the bright band now around me from their home perchance will rove, 
In their strength no more depending on my constant care and love ; 
But my first-born still shall wander from the sky, in dreams to rest 
Their soft cheeks and shining tresses on an earthly mother’s breast. 


Time may steal away the freshness, or some whelming grief destroy 
All the hopes that erst had blossomed in my summer-time of joy ; 
Earthly children may forsake me, earthly friends perhaps betray, 
Every tie that now unites me to this life may pass away. 


But, unchanged, those angel watchers, from their blest immortal home, 
Pure and fair, to cheer the sadness of my darkened dreams shall come, 
And I cannot feel forsaken, for, though ’reft of earthly love, 

Angel children call me “‘ Mother!” and my soul will look above. 


A LEGEND OF THE OPAL. 


A Peri, from her sea-girt cave, ~ 
Was wand’ring on a summer’s even, 

When white-caps crowned each swelling wave, 
And clouds were on the face of heaven. 


Her bark of light and fairy form, 
Was anchored near a silvery strand, 
While, heedless of the coming storm, 
She roamed along the sparkling sand. 


When sun, and sky, and water smiled, 
Often she sported on the shore— 
But never had this ocean-child 
Beheld her father’s wrath before. 


The black cloud burst! the lightning flashed ! 
Down rushed the floods of beating rain, 

While billows caught the roar, and dashed 
Their thundering echoes back again. | 


ROSA VERTNER JOHNSON. 959 


As when in some deep wood to hide, 
A bright and timid bird has flown, 

Amid this strife of wind and tide, 
The Peri stood, and watched alone, 


Till the mad tempest ceased to rave, 
Hushing awhile its demon yell, 

And winds had muttered to each wave, 
In moaning blasts, a low farewell. 


Then, where dark clouds so late had driven, 
And rolling thunders fiercely spoke, 

Now sunlight through the gates of Heaven, 
In streams of softest splendor broke. 


And see, where drop and sunbeam met, 
That beauteous arch, serenely proud, 
As if some son of light had set 
A seal of glory on the cloud. 


It might be that a seraph’s wing 
Had swept along the moistened air, 
And left its mingled hues to cling 
And beam, a glittering circlet there. 


The Peri gazed with ecstasy 
Upon the rainbow’s graceful form ; 


For, ne’er till now, beheld her eye, 
This brilliant of the sun and storm. 


She ran to clasp within her arms 
The band of soft and dreamy light, 

But lo! as on she sped, its charms 
Fled faster from her eager sight. 


‘* Alas!” she cried, “ beneath the wave, 
How many gems of beauty lie! 
Yet none so fair within my cave, 
As this rich jewel of the sky. 


260 


WOMEN OF THE SOUTH. 


“Oh! could I seize that mystic gleam, 
The inconstant lustre which I see, 
Or of that bow but one soft beam, 
To bear beneath the waves with me,” 


And as her tears her grief proclaim, 
Filling her sad and downcast eye, 
The angel of the rainbow came, 
For she had heard the Peri’s sigh. 


“List, daughter of the dark blue sea, 


Bright spirit of the restless deep, 
A gem of light I'll give to thee, 
Then mourn no more, and cease to weep.” 


The angel paused—then drawing near, 
One lucid drop she quickly stays ; 
And, crystallized, that Peri’s tear 
Flashed with the rainbow’s countless rays. 


The spirit faded from her sight, 
But who the Peri’s joy can tell? 
When with its heart of prisoned light, 
An Opal on her bosom fell! 


And thus a mystic name in story, 
This gem has borne for many a year, 
Blending with all the rainbow’s glory, 
An ocean spirit’s pearly tear. 


THE NIGHT HAS COME. 


The night has come, when I may sleep, 
To dream—perchance of thee— 

And where art thou? Where south-winds sweep 
Along a southern sea. . 


ROSA VERTNER JOHNSON. 261 


Thy home, a glorious tropic isle 
On which the sun with pride 

Doth smile, as might a sultan smile 
On his Circassian bride. 


And where the south-wind gently stirs 
A chime of fragrant bells, 
While come the waves as worshippers, 
With rosary of shells, fe 
The altars of the shore to wreathe, 
Where, in the twilight dim, 
Like nuns, the foam-veiled breakers breathe, 
Their wild and gushing hymn. 


The night has come, and I will glide 
O’er sleep’s hushed waves the while, 
In dreams to wander by thy side 
Through that enchanting isle. 
For, in the dark, my fancy seems 
As full of witching spells 
As yon blue sky of starry beams 
Or ocean-depth of shells. 


Yet sometimes visions do becloud 
My soul with such strange fears, 
They wrap me like an icy shroud 
And leave my soul in tears. 
For once methought thy hand did bind 
Upon my brow a wreath 
In which a viper was entwined 
That stung me—unto death. 


And once within a lotus cup, 
Which thou to me didst bring, 
A deadly vampire folded up 
Its cold and murky wing; 


262 


WOMEN OF THE SOUTH. 


And, springing from that dewy nest, 
It drained life’s azure rills, 

That wandered o’er my swelling breast 
Like brooks through snow-clad hills, 


Yet seemed it sweeter thus to die 
There, in thy very sight, 

Than see thee ‘neath that tropic sky, 
As in my dreams last night. 

For lo, within a palmy grove, 
Unto an eastern maid 

I heard thee whisp’ring vows of love 
Beneath the feathery shade. 


And stately as the palm was she, 
Yet thrilled with thy wild words, 
As its green crown might shaken be 
By many bright-winged birds ; 
And ’neath thy smile, in her dark eye, 
A rapturous light did spring, 
As in a lake soft shadows lie, 
Dropped from the rainbow’s wing. 


No serpent from the wreath did start, 
Which round her brow was twined ; 
Nor in the lotus’ perfumed heart 
Did she a vampire find ; 
For humming-birds were nestled there, 
By summer sweets oppressed, 
A type of her whose raven hair 
Was floating o’er thy breast. 


While thus I dreamed, all cold and mute, 
My warm glad heart had grown 

Like some fair flower or sunny fruit 
Turned by the waves to stone ; 


ROSA VERTNER JOHNSON. 263 


For o’er the treasures of my soul 
There swept a blacker tide 

Than e’en the dismal floods that roll 
O’er Sodom’s buried pride 


But passed away that vision dark, 
And now once more I come, 

In slumber’s slight, fantastic bark, 
Unto thy island home ; 

And thou art waiting there for me 
To weep upon thy breast, 

As on the shore the troubled sea — 
Doth sigh itself to rest. 


My wreath seems now of orange flowers, 
And from the chaplet pale 

Do glow-worms drop in shining showers 
To weave my bridal veil. 

The stars—God’s holy tapers—light 
The altars of the shore, 

And on us doth the solemn night 
A. benediction pour. 


THE COMET OF 1858, 


Oh, whither art thou hast’ning, in thy wild and wondrous flight? 
Fair stranger with the silver plume, and panoply of light ? 

Hast thou been sweeping ever thus, along the fields of space ? 
Among the countless orbs on high, hast thou no resting-place ? 


Thou art a mystery in the sky, as strange, and undefined. 

And glorious, as a thought of God, within the human mind. 

Bright and perplexing there, amid the knowledge of the soul, 

As thou art, seen where yon calm stars their changeless courses roll. 


A fairy web of crystal light, from Night’s high dome of blue 
Thy glory weaves, so delicate, the stars look softly through. 


264 WOMEN OF THE SOUTH. 


A mist so radiant, as we gaze, there lingers no regret, 
That it doth shade the beacon-lamps on Heaven’s high watch-tower set. 


One glory by another veiled, not lessened, as we trace 

The light of God’s refulgent smile, through the Redeemer’s grace ; 
A veil of dove, so beautiful, we kneel adoring there, 

And gazing up, behold it stirred by every breath of prayer. 


Whence art thou now? For centuries, long centuries have past, 
Since upon mortal vision beamed thy peerless beauty last ; 

And lo! then thousand years may fling upon the past their gloom, 
Ere mid yon shining host again shall wave thy royal plume. 


Did’st spring up from the diamond dust of which the stars were formed ? 
Art thou a spirit-star, within the sun’s caresses warmed ? 

Or a fierce, fiery missile, by the great Omniscient hurled, 

To crush and blot from yonder sky some sin-beclouded world? 


Perchance, thou art thyself a world, peopled by spirits lost; 
Souls doomed throughout immensity, forever to be tossed. 
Fair, fallen angels! who have lost their heritage in Heaven, 
And further still from God must now eternally be driven. 


Thou mind’st me of that wondrous plant, whose blossoms bless our eyes 
Once in a hundred years—thow are the Aloe of the skies; 

Save, that a myriad radiant years doth seem a briefer time 

To thee than mortal centuries, "neath their clouds of grief and crime. 


Thou mind’st me of the burning hopes that sometimes wildly start 
From sorrow’s night, and flash athwart the darkness of the heart. 
Mysterious, and fantastic, not the bird-like hope, that springs 

From youth’s gay green-wood with the dew of freshness on its wings. 


Phantoms of hope! that lure us on, and mocking, bid us cling 

To some blest idol which the heart has worshipped in its spring, 
Vainly! as dreaming hearts like mine may worship thee and mourn, 
(When thou art lost) ’neath starry skies of half their glory shorn. 


CAROLINE LEE HENTZ. 


Four years ago, while the MS. of her last work, “Ernest 
Linwood,” was yet in the hands of the printer, Mrs. Hentz 
passed suddenly into the spirit-world. As a woman and friend 
she was deeply mourned by the large circle which her graces 
adorned, and the whole country sang a dirge for the author. 

Yet Mrs. Hentz is still with us in her writings. They are 
singularly vital with her personality. The sensibilities, which 
gave to her such a power of enjoyment, and were, at the same 
time, alive to “ an angel’s scope of agony,” quiver in her works 
as truly as they once played upon her face or throbbed in her 
pulses. Equally apparent on every page are the vigor and 
vivacity, the moral perception, the religious faith, which 
marked her life and conversation. 

A rich.“ cabinet picture” of Mrs. Hentz, from the pen of her 
intimate friend, Madame Le Vert, will bring her vividly before 
our readers: 

“*Some writer has said, ‘authors should be read, not known’ 
—Mrs. Hentz is a bright exception to this remark. She is one 
of those rare, magnetic women, who attract admiration at the 
first interview. The spell she wove around me was like the 
invisible beauty of music. I yielded willingly to its magic 
influence. | | 

“Never have I met a more fascinating person. Mind is 
enthroned on her noble brow, and beams in the glances of her 
radiant eyes. She is tall, graceful and dignified, with that high- 


265 


266 WOMEN OF THE SOUTH. 


bred manner which betokens gentle blood. She has infinite 

»tact and talent in conversation, and never speaks without 
_ awakening interest. As I listened to her eloquent language, I 
felt that she was indeed worthy of the wreath of immortality 
which fame had given in other days. and other lands, to a De 
Genlis, or to a De Sévigne. 

“She possesses great enthusiasm of character; the enthu- 
siasm described by Mme. De Staél, as ‘God within us’—the 
love of the good, the holy and the beautiful. She has neither 
pretension nor pedantry ; and, although admirably accomplished, 
and a perfect classic and belles-lettres scholar, has all the sweet 
simplicity of an elegant woman. 

“Like the charming authoress, Fredrika Bremer, her works — 
all tend to elevate the tone of moral feeling. There is a refine- 
ment, delicacy and poetic imagery in all her historiettes touch- 
ingly delightful. A calm and pure religion is mirrored on every 
page. The sorrow-stricken mourner finds therein the balm of 
consolation, and the bitter tears cease to flow, when she points 
to that ‘ Better Land,’ where the loved and the lost are waiting 
for us. 

“Many of her words are gay and spiritual, full of delicate 
wit, ‘bright as the flight of a shining arrow.’ Often have the 
smiles, long exiled from the lips, returned at the bidding of her 
merry muse. 

“ Home, especially, she describes with enchanting truthful- 
ness. She seems to have dipped her pen in her own soul, and 
written of: its emotions. She exalts all that is generous and 
noble in the human heart, and gives to even the clouds of exis- 
tence a sunny softness, like the dreamy light of a Claude Lor- 
raine picture.” 

Caroline Lee Whiting was a native of Lancaster, Massachu- 
setts. Her father, General John Whitney, and two of her 
brothers, were officers in the U.S.army. Of the latter, General 


CAROLINE LEE HENTZ. 267 


Henry Whiting, a brave man and a scholar, was aid-de-camp 
to General Taylor, and distinguished himself in the Mexican’ . 
War. 

Before our writer had reached the age of thirteen, she was 
the author of a poem, a novel, and a tragedy in five acts. In 
1825 she married Mr. N. M. Hentz, a French gentleman, who, 
jointly with Mr. Bancroft, the historian, conducted at that time 
a seminary at Northampton, Mass. Soon after, Mr. Hentz was 
appointed Professor of Modern Languages in the College of 
Chapel Hill, North Carolina. This position he occupied for 
several years, and then removed with his family to Covington, 
Kentucky, where Mrs. Hentz wrote her popular drama, “ De 
Lara; or the Moorish Bride,” for which she received five 
hundred dollars and a gold medal, the prize offered in Philadel- 
phia for the best original tragedy. It was brought out at the 
Arch street Theatre of that city, and enacted for many suc- 
cessive nights with éclat. It afterward appeared in book form. 

From Covington they removed to Cincinnati, Ohio, and 
thence, in 1834, to Locust Hill, in Florence, Alabama, where 
for nine years they had charge of a flourishing female academy. 
In 1843 they transferred this institution to Tuscaloosa ; thence, 
in 1845, to Tuskegee, and again, in 1848, to Columbus, Georgia, 
where our author resided at the time of her death in 1856. 

These frequent changes, and the arduous duties of their 
school, afforded Mrs. Hentz little opportunity for literary labor, 
and not until their removal to Columbus was she able to write 
with any degree of regularity. 

Her second tragedy, “‘ Lamorah, or the Western Wilds,” 
appeared in a newspaper at Columbus ; while a third, “ Countess 
of Wirtemberg,” is still, we think, unpublished. 

In 1848, she wrote a poem, “Human and Divine Philo- 
sophy,” for the Erosophic Society of the University of Alabama. 

She is best known by her spirited novelettes, contributed to 


7 


968 WOMEN OF THE SOUTH. 


different periodicals, and reproduced from time to time, in 
. published volumes. 

In 1846, she brought out “ Aunt Patty’s Scrap-Bag,” a 
collection of short stories, written for magazines. This was 
followed, in 1848, by “Mob Cap,” which obtained a prize of 
two hundred dollars. Both of these books have been univer- 
sally read and admired. 

In 1850, she published “ Linda, or the Young Pilot of the 
Belle Creole;” in 1851, ‘“ Rena, or the Snow Bird;” in 1852, 
“Marcus Warland, or the Long Moss Spring ;” and “ Eoline, or 
Magnolia Vale ;” in 1853, “ Wild Jack,” and “ Ellen and Arthur, 
or Miss Thusa’s Spinning Wheel;” in 1854, “The Planter’s 
Northern Bride,’ which took rank at once among our best 
novels; and in 1856, her master-piece and reguzem, “ Ernest 
Linwood.” Some extracts from a notice of our own, which 
appeared at that time in the “ Evening Mirror,” may recall the 
tender pathos*and force of this book, with the touching acces- 
sories of its publication : 


““¢ Death darkens his eye, and unplumes his wings, 


But the sweetest song is the last he sings.’” 


“In the volume, ‘Ernest Linwood,’ just issued by Jewett 
& Co., of Boston, we have the dying song of the gifted Mrs. 
Caroline Lee Hentz. Mournfully sweet, like the sigh of an 
olian lyre, yet deep and oracular as the voice of many waters, 
it seems to have been poured forth while her soul floated down 
to the ocean of Rest. On almost every page we can trace the 
shadow of the death angel, who bore her away when her song 
was ended. Mysterious gleams from beneath the uplifting veil 
of spirit-land startle us as we read. The book is a broad-cast 
farewell—a lingering hand-grasp from one we loved. If we 
mistake not, its most impressive passages are revelations of the 


CAROLINE LEE HENTZ. 269 


wn 


inner life of the writer— wonderfully vivid and absorbing, , 
because wonderfully real. 

“We will not attempt to follow out, in this notice, the thread 
of an inimitable tale; in so doing, we should only anticipate 
scenes and events, which come, with beautiful linkings and fine 
effect, before the eye of the reader.. We would not rob the 
book of half its charm. 

“Sweet Gabriella Lynn will tell her own story. Warm 
tears will spring into bright eyes, as they look opon the dream- 
child—the impassioned school-girl—standing beneath the 
‘beetling brows’ of the powerful preceptor, to hear sentence 
pronounced upon her first written dream of poetry. The pant- 
ing of that heart, when the taunting criticism fell—the sudden 
spring—the snatching of the manuscript—the flight into the 
woods—the passionate outburst upon the green turf—the blessed 
ministration of a gentle, sad-eyed mother—will carry many a 
heart back to the shadows of school-days and the rich sunlight 
of home. 

“ We linger over the exquisite picture of the child Gabriella, 
peering with deep eyes into the mist that surrounded her, and 
vainly seek with her to fathom the mystery of life. We look 
with her upon the classic face of her dead mother, Rosalie, and 

wonder at the mystery of death. We follow her to the end, for 

she is the one silver thread always visible. Every scene is a 
reality, and each succeeding scene more real, more luminous 
than the last. The writer seems to gather power and inspiration 
as she advances, pouring out her life, like the dying swan, in 
strains of painful sweetness. 

‘The characters in this book are drawn with masterly skill. 
Each has an individuality and a relative importance, without 
which the story would be incomplete. No diabolical agent 
drags its slimy length along its pages, but we are held spell- 
bound by the delineations of a fault, and the natural conse- 


970 WOMEN OF THE SOUTH. 


quences of a fault, which develops itself at every turn in life. 
- © Ernest Linwood ’—the lordly in intellect—the peerless in beauty 
and manhood—whose ‘eyes with a thousand meanings,’ gaze 
into our very souls, is made the temple of the unhallowed 
passion of jealousy. Its purple light, at intervals, towers above 
everygnoble element of his nature, but, with the gentle Gabriella, 
we always pity, always forgive, and he is at last lifted, by sor- 
rowful lessons and earnest prayers, from his inglorious thralldom. 

‘“ Margaret Melville, or ‘ Meg the Dauntless, is a life-like, 
genuine character—the rarest spice of the tale, though she does 
come in always at wnseasonable hours. We like her, notwith- 
standing her hoydenish eccentricities. 

‘Let those who are accustomed to give voice and wings to 
scandalous gossip, hiding beneath the broad garments of an 
irresponsible ‘ They Say,’ let such find in the book ‘ Ernest Lin- 
wood,’ their unmasked and hideous faces. 

‘The graces of the true Christian are beautifully marked in 
the character of Mrs. Linwood, and a recognition of an over-— 
ruling Power is everywhere apparent. 

“ All the writings of Mrs. Caroline Lee Hentz indicate fine | 
and keen sensibilities of soul. It is a sweet assurance that they 
drink only the beautiful now—thrill only to divinest harmonies.” 

The short poems of Mrs. Hentz, are scattered in various’ 
periodicals. They are full of the tender warmth of the writer’s 
nature, and flow and gush, and sparkle, as naturally as a wood- 
land brook. _ | 

Her tragedy, “ De Lara, or the Moorish Bride,” stands first 
among her poetical works, and holds high rank in the dramatic 
literature of America. It is remarkable for its depth of thought 
and force of utterance, its searching insight and poetic beauty. 

The scenes and incidents of Mrs. Hentz’s stories were drawn 
almost entirely from southern life. She wrote with singular 
erace and facility, sitting down in the midst of the family circle, 


CAROLINE LEE HENTZ. aya) 


and taking up her pen, as one has said, very much “as others 
do their knitting,” to dash off sheet after sheet in perfect order 
for the printer. 
A new, complete, and uniform edition of Mrs. Hentz’s works 
has been given to the world since her death, by Peterson & 
Brothers, of Philadelphia. " 


SUL OAL oe 


They say! Who are they? Who are the cowled monks, the hooded 
friars, who glide with shrouded faces in the procession of life, muttering 
in an unknown tongue words of mysterious import? Who are they? 
The midnight assassins of reputations, who lurk in the by-ways of society, 
with dagger tongues, sharpened by invention and envenomed by malice, 
to draw the blood of innocence, and, hyena-like; banquet on the dead. 
Who are they? They are a multitude no man can number, black-stoled 
familiars of the inquisition of Slander, searehing for victims in every city, 
town, and village, wherever the heart of humanity throbs, or the ashes 
of mortality find rest. Give me the bold brigand, who thunders along 
the highways with flashing weapon, that cuts the sunbeams as well as 
the shades. Give me the pirate, who unfurls the black flag, and shows 
the plank which your doomed feet must: tread; but save me from the 
_ They-sayers of society, whose knives are hidden in a velvet sheath, whose 
bridge of death is woven of flowers, and who spread, with invisible poi- 
gon, even the spotless whiteness of the winding sheet. . 


FAME. 


To touch the electric wire, and feel the boit- scathing one’s own brain; 
to speak, and hear the dreary echo of one’s voice return through the 
‘desert waste; to enter the temple, and find nothing but ruins and desola- 
tion; to lay 4 sacrifice on the altar, and see no fire from heaven descend 
in token'of acceptance; to stand the priestess of a lonely shrine, uttering 
oracles to the unheeding wind—is not such, too often, the doom of those 
who have looked to fame as their heritage? 


272 WOMEN OF THE SOUTH. 


UNION WITHOUT LOVE. 


Woe to her, who, forgetting this heavenly union, bathes her heart in 
the earthly stream, without seeking the living spring whence it flows; 
who worships the fire-ray that falls upon the altar, without giving glory 
to Him from whom it descended. The stream will become a stagnant 
pool, exhaling pestilence and death; the fire-ray will kindle a devouring 
flame, destroying the altar with the gift, and the heart a burning bush, 
that will blaze forever without consuming. 


THE BLACK MASK. 


“No, I will not go to-night,” exclaimed Blanche, taking from her 
head a bandeau of pearls, and tossing it into the hands of her attendant. 
“No, I will not go—I am weary most of all of talking and listening to 
nonsense. I will stay at home, and enjoy the»supreme luxuries of sim- 
plicity, quiet, and solitude. Yes! solitude! for dear Mrs. Channing is 
gone to an old-fashioned tea-party, and you, Elsie, are not to disturb me, 
after I have once composed myself to the task of admiring myself, by 
myself.” 

“But this beautiful dress?” cried her obsequious chambermaid. 

‘¢ Put it back in the wardrobe.” | 

‘* These pearls ?” 

‘In the case.” 

‘‘ These flowers ?”’ 

‘‘ Ah! give me the flowers. They are beautiful, they breathe of nature, 
and I love them. Here, take this heavy comb from my hair,” continued 
the capricious beauty, and then shaking her hair loosely over her shoul- 
ders, and untying the bouquet, she twisted the flowers into a careless 
garland and twined it round her head. 

‘‘ And now, Elsie, give me that simple white robe, fastened with blue 
ribbons. You must confess it is ten thousand times prettier than the one 
you have just put aside. Ah, me! I wish I were nothing but a plain 
country lassie, left to wander about at my own sweet will.” 

‘“‘T think somebody has her own sweet will now,” said Elsie to her- 
self, vexed to think that her young and beautiful mistress was going to 





CAROLINE LEE HENTZ. 273 


shut herself up at home, instead of exhibiting herself to the admiring 
crowd. 

‘But what shall I say to Mr. Orne, when he calls to attend you?” 

“Tell him I cannot, will not go to-night.” 

“He will be angry.” 

‘**T care not—but he is too stuprd to be angry. Besides, he has no cause, 
for I gave no promise to accompany him.” 

Elsie, who was accustomed to the varying moods of Bllehe sighed 
as she put away the beautiful paraphernalia of fashion, with which she had 
hoped to adorn her mistress for the evening’s fete, while Blanche, telling 
her she had no further need of her services, descended to the little room 
she called her boudoir. And a charming little room it was—a perfect 
bijou of a room—fitting palace for a fairy queen. It is no wonder that 
she liked sometimes to rest on that soft, blue-cushioned sofa, and look 
around on all the exquisite adornments her own taste had selected. Cur- 
tains of blue damask, her favorite color, shaded the window; the glass 
doors of her cabinet were lined with the same cerulean hue; and even 
the figures of the carpet were blue, melting off in a background of white. 
Little Cupids, painted in* fresco, on the ceiling, seemed to fan her with 
their wings, and Cupids, still smaller, fashioned of marble, supported the 
lamps that glittered on the mantel-piece. There were ever so many 
Cupids, little, less, least, bronze, porcelain, and glass, on the shelves of 
the étagére, which looked like a royal baby-house, with its magical toys 
and indescribable curiosities. The only thing of use on which the eye 
could rest was a magnificent harp, supported by a lazy-looking Cupid, 
lurking in the corner of the apartment, thus throwing the illusion of 
mythology and poetry over an instrument in itself most poetical and 
romantic. Blanche gathered back the azure folds of the curtains into the 
gilded hands that issued from the walls, ready to grasp them, drew the 
light sofa near the window, and seating herself upon it, looked admirably 
in keeping with all the surrounding objects. She, too, wore the livery 
of white and blue, and soft and bright sparkled her bright blue eyes 
beneath her white brow. Her heart, moreover, was clothed with the 
whiteness of innocence, and the blue of hope fluttered gaily as a silken 
ribbon over a spotless surface. Though the child of wealth, and the idol 
of fashion, she was yet unspoiled by their influence. Her caprices were 
white, fleecy clouds, floating over the clear blue of an April morning. 
One thing more completed the livery. Blanche, sweet, charming, capri- 

18 


2 p4 WOMEN OF THE SOUTH. 


cious, blue-eyed Blanche, with sorrow we confess it, had a tinge of the 
blues. Listen to her thoughts, as they move with their low whispers the 
folds of her muslin robe: 

““T want to be alone, and yet I want some one near to whom I can 
say—‘How sweet it is to be alone.’ The pleasures of society—how I 
panted for them when I was a foolish Httle school-girl, pining for liberty 
that I cannot now enjoy! And for a while, I did enjoy them vividly, 
wildly. It was rapturing to be thought beautiful, to be admired and 
caressed and loved. Loved? No. I have never yet been really loved. 
Love disdains flattery and adulation. My own heart will bear witness 
when it is true and honest. ‘Yes,’ added she, laying her hand on its 
gentle, uniform throbbing, ‘the voice has never yet breathed into my 
ears that can quicken the pulsations of this heart of mine. I look in vaing 
among the cold, vapid devotees of fashion for one touch of nature, one 
flash of passion. I shall mingle with them till I become as cold, as vain, 
as vapid myself. I shall live and die, and the world will never know what 
I might have been, from what I am, and what I shall be.” 

“And yet,” added the ennuyée, ‘‘I am wrong to say I have never 
been loved. There is one I’ know, who, I bélieve, loves me well, and 
whom I have sometimes thought I might love in return, did I meet him 
anywhere save in the cold halls of fashion. Could he throw any romance, 
any mystery aronnd him, I might possibly become interested in him, 
There would be nothing heroic or self-sacrificing in my loving him, for 
fortune smiles upon him, and friends are zealous to promote his cause. 
Were he poor, I could enrich him with my wealth. Were he lowly, I could 
ennoble him with my connexions; or, were J poor and lowly, he could prove 
the disinterestedness of his attachment. I cannot bear this common-place 
kind of wooing, this dull, matter-of-fact kind of existence. I could envy the 
wild love of O’Connor’s child, ‘ the bud of Erin’s royal tree of glory,’ though 
thrice-dyed in blood was the tissue of her mournful story.” 

If the remarks of Blanche seem incoherent, let it be remembered that 
she is conversing with herself, and every one knows how wildly the thoughts 
may run, when imagination is let loose. 

‘‘Let me see,” said the romantic damsel; ‘‘ cannot I do something to 
charm the solitude that already begins to weary me? Ah, there is my 
harp; I do love its sounding strains. How charming it would be to have 
some young hero bending over me as I play, while I drank in inspiration 
from his kindling eyes!” 


CAROLINE LEE HENTZ, 275 


Drawing the harp near her, she passed her hands over its golden chords, 
and made a sweet wild medley of strains, caught up from many a remem- 
bered song. Her hair, as it swept over her white arms, against the glit- 
tering wires, resembled the golden locks of the maiden whose ringlets 
were twined into the chords, from which such exquisite music had been 
drawn. Long she played and sang, till the little Cupids on the walls 
looked as if they were flying about inspired by her thrilling notes. She 
did not hear the sound of entering footsteps; but a shadow fell upon the 
harp, and she looked up. A tall, dark figure stood before her, black 
from head to foot. Supposing it a negro who had boldly intruded into 
her presence, she uttered an exclamation of terror, and sprang toward 
the door. 

* “Pardon this intrusion,” said the stranger, in a gentle voice, bowing 
gracefully as he spoke; “I did not mean to terrify, and if you will 
grant me a few moments’ audience, you will find you have no cause to 
fear.” 

She observed with astonishment, that the hand which he slightly 
extended in speaking, was almost as fair as her own, while his face was 
as black as night. Still trembling with terror, though somewhat reassured 
by the sweetness of his voice, she ventured to look on him more stead- 
fastly, and discovered that he wore a mask of black enamel, above which 
his raven black hair clustered, making of the head one ebon mass. 

‘How did you gain admittance?” she asked, tremulously. ‘And what 
is your errand with me?” 

“Will you forgive me,” he answered, “when I say, that, attracted by 
the sweetness of your voice, as it was borne through the open windows, 
by the breath of night, I have dared to present myself before you, believ- 
ing that the same instinct which caused my presumption will plead for 
my pardon, and secure my welcome ?” 

“Indeed, sir,” exclaimed Blanche, her cheek glowing with anger, ‘‘ this 
is an intrusion I consider unpardonable. As neither pardon nor welcome 
awaits you here, I trust you will leave me immediately. To a gentleman, 
the request of a lady has the authority of a command.” 

Blanche was astonished at her own courage in thus daring to address 
the masked and mysterious stranger. Though angry at his presumption, 
she could not repress a keen delight at an adventure so singular and 
romantic. The indescribable charm of his voice had disarmed her terror, ~ 
and the grace and dignity of his mien spoke the polished and high-bred 


276 WOMEN OF THE SOUTH. 


gentleman. But the black mask—the sudden entrance—the lonely hour— 
the stillness of the night—these things pressed upon her heart, and its 
throbbings became quick and loud. 

‘Permit me,” said the stranger, ‘‘ before I depart, to repay you, if pos- 
sible, for the soothing pleasure your music has imparted. I, too, am a son 
of song, and like the bards of Ossian, I love to wake the breezy melody of: 
the harp-string.”’ 

While he was speaking, he approached the instrument from which she 
had retreated at his entrance, and kneeling on.one knee, he swept his hands 
over the chords, making a prelude of such surpassing sweetness, she held her 
breath to listen. Then mingling with the diapason the rich tones of his 
voice, he began a song whose words seemed the improvisation of genius, for 
they applied to herself, the hour, the meeting, in strains of such wondrous¢ 
melody, she felt under the dominion of enchantment. Never before had she 
heard such music as came gushing through that ebon mask, filling the room 
with a flood of harmony which almost drowned her sinking spirit. Unable 
to bear up under the new and overpowering emotions that were oppressing 
her, she sunk back on the sofa, and tears stole from her downcast eyes. 

The stranger paused, and rising, leaned gracefully on the harp from which 

he had been calling forth such celestial notes. 
WeeYon weep,” said he; ‘‘ but they are not tears of sorrow. You would 
not exchange those tears for the false smiles which would have gilded your 
face had you mingled in the crowd, an instinct of your heart led you this 
night to avoid. You shunned the giddy throng. You sought the solitude 
of this delicious apartment only that you might meet a kindred spirit here. 
Farewell! we shall meet again. No earthly barrier could now keep us 
asunder.” 

Stooping down and picking up a rose that had fallen from her hair, and 
putting it in his bosom, he added: 

‘This flower shall be sent to you as a token when I am again near.” 

He turned, and was about to leave the apartment, when, urged by irre- 
sistible curiosity, she exclaimed : 

‘‘ Before you depart, let me behold the face of my mysterious friend, and 
tell me why you wear so strange and solemn a disguise.” 

“T cannot break a vow that I have imposed on myself,” replied the black- 
masked stranger. ‘It is only at the nuptial altar that I can lift the dark 
visor which conceals my features. The woman who can love me well 
enough to unite her fate with mine, unknowing what this mask conceals, 


CAROLINE LEE HENTZ. NE 


whether it be matchless beauty or unequalled deformity, will alone have 
power to remove the disguise whose midnight shadow now darkens the 
moonlight of your beauty. Do you believe that spiritual, high-souled, trust- 
ing woman exists? Do you believe such love can be found 2” 

‘‘T know nothing of love,” she answered, endeavoring to speak coldly ; 
but her voice unconsciously obeyed the spell that was upon her, and its 
modulations were soft as the breathings of her own dulcet harp. 

“Happy is he who will teach thee its divine lore,” said the stranger, 
again seating himself by her side. ‘‘O, maiden, more beautiful than the 
dream of the poet, more pure than the vision of infancy,” continued he, 
in a strain of romantic enthusiasm, such as she never had expected to 
hear from mortal lips, ‘‘be it mine to instill this wisdom into the heart 

athat is even now sighing to receive it. Mine be the master hand that 
will touch the golden chords of sympathy, and awaken all your slumber- 
ing being to the music of love.” 

““Q, that I dared to believe—that I dared to listen!” cried Blanche, 
carried out of herself by an influence that seemed electric; ‘‘but this 
interview, so sudden, so mysterious, your strange vow, your dark eclipse, 
the commanding power you exert over my will—ah, leave me. I cannot 
bear the oppression that is weighing down my heart.” 

“Tl obey you,” he cried, again rising. “For worlds I would not en- 
croach on the goodness that has forgiven my presumption, or the gentle- 
ness and sensibility that plead even now, with eloquent tongue, the cause 
of your mysterious friend. ona es For the rose of which I have 
robbed you, accept this diamond ring.” 

“Taking hér hand, and encircling her finger with the brilliant token, 
he passed through the door like a vision of night, leaving her speechless 
and spell-bound. So startling, so thrilling was the pressure, she sat like 
one in a nightmare. She had almost imagined herself in a dream, in the 
presence of her mysterious guest; but the warm, soft pressure of that 
ungloved hand assured her of the reality of the scene. Then the ring 
that glittered on her finger with such surpassing brightness, the golden 
circle with its star-like gem, that seemed to burn into her flesh, so strongly” 
did it warm and accelerate the current that was glowing and rushing 
through her veins! Asténished, bewildered, terrified, but charmed at a 
romance exceeding her wildest hopes, she flew upstairs to her dressing- 
room, where Elsie sat slumbering in an easy-chair, thus beguiling the time 
of her mistress’ absence. Blanche had always made a confidant of Elsie, 


278 WOMEN OF THE SOUTH. 


and now her heart would have burst with its strange secret if she could 
not have confided it to another. She awoke the slumbering girl, and 
related the astonishing, the almost incredible incident. 

‘‘Tmpossible!” cried Elsie; ‘‘it must have been a delusion of the senses.” 

‘But this ring—this surely is a reality. Did you ever see anything 
so surpassingly brilliant?” and she turned the radiant token till it flashed 
back the lamplight dazzlingly into the wondering eyes of the girl. 

‘OQ, for the love of the blessed Virgin!” she exclaimed (Elsie was a 
devout Catholic), ‘‘ for the love of your own sweet soul, don’t wear it. Itis 
a magic ring, I am sure, and the black man that put it there may be Lucifer 
himself, for aught you know.” 

‘““My good Elsie, how can you be so foolish and superstitious? Even iff 
could believe in the incarnation of an evil spirit, it never could assume a form” 
so gracious, or speak in a voice so sweet. O, never did I hear such a voice 
of music! Though I could not see his face, his eyes beamed resplendently 
through his mask, and his hand is the fairest I ever beheld.” 

‘“‘But why should he put on that ugly mask, unless he has some evil pur- 
pose ?” 

‘‘He is under a vow to wear it till ”»—— 

Blanche paused and blushed, and then blushed more painfully, because 
she was so foolish as to blush at all. 

‘‘T have no doubt he wears it to cover some horrible mark,” cried Elsie, 
shuddering and crossing herself. 

‘“‘ Impossible.” 

‘‘T dare say he has the face of a skeleton underneath. I have heard of 
such things.” 

“Silence, Elsie! it is sacrilege to talk as you do.” 

But though Elsie bridled her tongue, the disagreeable impression her 
words had produced still remained. The possibility of their truth chilled 
the glowing romance of Blanche’s feelings, and checked the enthusiasm with 
which remembrance dwelt on her mysterious visitor. Blanche bound Elsie 
by a promise not to mention the incident to Mrs. Channing, the lady who 
acted as maternal guardian to the orphan Blanche, and presided over the 
mansion of her youthful charge. All the next day Blanche remained in a 
kind of dreamy abstraction, the color coming and going on her beautiful 
cheek, and her soft blue eyes suffused with a misty languor. Sometimes she 
delighted herself in picturing the features that the shrouding mask concealed 
as the ideal of manly beauty; then again the horrible suggestions of Elsie 


oe 


CAROLINE LEE HENTZ. 279 


would recur to her and fill her with nameless apprehensions. She thought 
of the veiled Prophet of Khorassan, the doom of the helpless Zelica, and the 
unutterable horrors concealed by the silver veil: She remembered the 
beautiful Leonora and the phantom horseman, whose skeleton visage was 
hidden by the closed bars of his visor, and who bore his confiding bride to 
the ghastly churchyard and the yawning grave. She remembered that his 
form wore the semblance of manly grace, and that his voice had a tone of 
more than earthly sweetness. 

_ “ ilow foolish, how childish I am!” thought she, smiling at the super- 
stitious images on which she had been dwelling. ‘The  silver-veiled 
Mokanna and the Phantom Husband of Leonora were beings existing only in 
the imagination of the poet, whom the genius of the painter has also deline- 
ated. But the black-masked stranger is a living, breathing actuality, of 
whose existence and presence I have a dazzling token.” 

Another idea disturbed her excited brain. Perhaps she was the sport of 


-some bold youth, who, knowing her romantic temperament, had thus sought 


to play upon her credulity and expose her to the ridicule of the world. So 
strong became this conviction, that when evening came on, and she was 
summoned, as usual, to entertain her admiring visitors, she fancied she could 
trace in many forms a similitude to the lineaments of the graceful stranger. 
But no. It was an illusion of the imagination. No figure. half so graceful, 
no voice half so sweet as his. Never had the conversation of her compan- 
ions seemed half so uninteresting and commonplace, never had the hours 
appeared so long and leaden. She played upon her harp, but her own strains 
recalled the ravishing melody of his, and her hands trembled as they swept 
the sounding strings. She talked and smiled, and tried to chain her wander- 
ing thoughts, but they would stay far out in the moonlight night, where 
fancy followed the dark form of the stranger. As her white hands threaded 
the golden wires, the diamond ring flashed upon her eye its ominous splen- 
dors, and filled her with wild emotions. 

‘St. Cecilia called down an angel from the skies,” said one of her guests, 
gazing upon the gem that coruscated upon her finger, “but you seem to 
have drawn one of the stars of heaven from its home in the skies, to sparkle 
upon your hand. There must be a magic in that ring, for never did your 
harp discourse such witching music.” 

Blanche turned away her face to hide her conscious blushes, and at the 
same time the words of Elsie, foolish and superstitious as they were, occurred 


to her, and the roseate cloud melted away in the whiteness of snow. 


280 WOMEN OF THE SOUTH. 


One by one her guests departed, and she was left alone. She listened to 
the echo of their departing footsteps, till the stillness of death pervaded the 
apartment. She could distinctly hear the quick beatings of her heart, and 
her robe fluttered as visibly over its palpitations as the azure curtains rustling 
in the soft breath of night. 

‘Why do I linger here?” said she, looking out into the calm majesty and 
loveliness of a cloudless evening. ‘I will not remain; as if seeking an inter- 
view with one whose fascinations, I feel, | never could resist. Where there 
is mystery there is always danger. I thank my guardian angel for whisper- 
ing this caution to my heart.” 

At this moment something flew like a light-winged bird by her cheek, 
and. fell rustling at her feet. It was something enveloped in a soft, white 
tissue. She opened it and beheld her own faded rose; while she gazed with# 
mingled shame and delight on the sweet but wilted token, the soft sound of 
entering footsteps met her ear, and the tall, black-masked stranger stood 
before her. 

She no longer feared him. She even welcomed his approach with a 
strange rapture, that sent the warm blood bounding through her veins and 
eddying in her cheeks. He sat down by her side, and his low, sweet, mellow 
voice uttered words of wondrous fascination. She listened like one entranced, 
forgetting the fate of Zelica, and the doom of Leonora. Indeed, had she 
known that the same dark destiny awaited her, she could not have broken 
the spell that enthralled her. For hours he lingered at her side, while his 
eyes, like stars shining through a midnight cloud, were beaming with mys- | 
terious splendor upon her brow. Her will bowed before his mighty will, and, 
ere she was aware of the act, she had sealed her heart’s warrant for life or 
death. She had consented to follow him to the altar, and unveil with her 
rash and daring hand the brow now covered with so dark an eclipse. 

‘You love me,” cried the stranger, while his voice trembled with ecstasy ; 
‘you love me with that pure, spiritual love, which, born on earth, is but a 
type of an immortal wedlock. You will love me still, whatever be the fea- 
tures this gloomy mask conceals. Be they those of a fiend, you will not love 
me less; be they those of an angel, you will not love me more.” 

And Blanche bowed her fair head on his shoulder, and was constrained to 
utter : 

‘* Angel or fiend, I must love thee still.” 

‘* To-morrow, then, at this hour, I shall come and claim thee for my 
bride. Nay, speak not of delay, for my destiny must be fulfilled. You shall 


CAROLINE LEE HENTZ. IS 


know when [I am near, but not by this faded token. The pledge of my 
coming shall breathe of life, and joy, and hope.” 

Pressing her hand gracefully to his heart, he disappeared, while Blanche 
trembled and wept at the remethbrance of the vow she had _plighted. 
Released from the magic of his presence, she saw her rashness, her madness, 
and infatuation, in their true light. She felt she was rushing blindfold to the 
verge of perdition. She was terrified at the intensity of her emotions. 
Better were it for her heart to remain in the torpor over which it had been 
mourning, than awake to a sense of life so keen as almost to amount to agony. 
She was like the blind suddenly restored to sight, with a flood of noonday 
glory pouring on the lately darkened vision. She was fainting from excess 
of light. 

* Softly she ascended to her chamber, so as not to arouse the sleeping 
Elsie, whose remarks she now dreaded to hear; but so light were her slum- 
bers, they vanished at the soft rustle of Blanche’s muslin robe. 

“TI saw him!” she cried, dispersing the mist of sleep from her eyelids; “I 
saw him from the window as he entered, and I have been praying the blessed 
Virgin ever since, to shield you from harm.” 

‘*‘You must have been praying in your sleep, then,” said Blanche. 

‘Oh, dear mistress, do not see him again. You will find he is some mur- 
derer who has a brand on his forehead ’”—— 

“Stop, Elsie,” cried the shuddering Blanche. ‘It is slander. I will not 
permit it.” 

‘“‘ And besides,” continued the persevering girl, ‘‘I dare say the barbarians 
have cut off his nose and cropped his ears into the bargain. People never 
hide their beauty under a mask.” 

‘Hlsie, leave my room if you cannot be silent,” said Blanche, with rising 
courage. | 

Elsie obeyed her, but muttered something about sulphur and hoofs, as she 
closed the door behind her. 

‘‘How very impertinent Elsie is growing!” cried Blanche, throwing her- 
self weeping upon the bed. ‘‘ But how can I expect to retain the respect of 
a maid, when I have forfeited my own self-esteem? Alas! what if her sur. 
mises be true? What if the brand of indelible disgrace be stamped upon 
that brow where I havé imagined more than mortal beauty dwells? What 
if, instead of a nose which Phidias might have taken as a model for one of 
the gods of Greece, there should be only a frightful cavity, a horrible dis- 


figurement!” 


282 WOMEN OF THE SOUTH. 


Recoiling at the awful picture Elsie’s fertile imagination had conjured, 
she spread her hands before her face, to shut out a vision so appalling. It 
_ was strange—in his presence she had a perfect conviction that his mask con- 
cealed the face of an angel, while in his absence the conviction faded, and the 
most terrific fancies usurped its place. 

“QO, that I could recall my fatal pledge!” she cried to herself, as she 
tossed upon her restless couch. ‘‘ But itis given, and be it for weal or woe, 
I must abide by the result.” 

The next evening Mrs. Channing, the kind maternal friend whom 
Blanche had so dearly loved, remained by her, as if drawn toward her by 
some unusual attraction. Never had she been so tender, so affectionate. 
Blanche gazed upon her with bitter self-reproach, thinking how ill she was 
about to requite her guardian’s cares. She longed to throw her arms around 
her neck, reveal her secret, and pray her to save her from the delusions of 
her own heart. 

‘““T fear you are not well, my sweet child,” said the lady, in soothing 
accents. ‘Indeed, I have noticed, all day, that you have looked feverish and 
il. Do not sit in the night air, in that thin dress, too. Why, my dear, you 
are dressed like a bride. I did not know that you were going abroad to- 
night. I fear this life of pleasure will wilt the roses of your youth ”——. 

‘““T have promised to go,” she said, avoiding the glances of her friend, 
‘and I cannot break my word. But it is the last time—indeed, it is the 
last.” 

While she was speaking, a white rose-bud fell at her feet. 

‘““See,” said Mrs. Channing, smiling, ‘‘see what the breeze has blown to 
you. It must be a token of happiness—fit emblem of your beauty and inno- 
cence.” 

‘Do you think it a token of happiness?” cried Blanche, eagerly gather- 
ing up the well-known signal. ‘Thank you for the words. I go witha 
lighter heart. Farewell, kindest and best of friends. Heaven bless you, for 
ever and ever.” | 

Pressing her quivering lips on the placid forehead she might never again 
behold, she glided from the room. She dreaded meeting Elsie, but was com- 
pelled to go to her chamber for her mantle and veil, and there she encoun- 
tered her faithful and remonstrating friend. When Blanche, with a face as ~ 
pale as marble, threw her mantle over her shoulders, and cast a light veil 
over her golden locks, Elsie seemed to divine her purpose, and entreated her 
to remain. | 


CAROLINE LEE HENTZ. 283 


‘Oh, it is like a bride you are dressed,” she cried, ‘‘ with those pearls on 
your neck and arms, and that beautiful white rose-bud on your bosom.” 

Blanche could not leave her faithful attendant without some memorial of 
her love. Opening her jewel-case, she took out a costly necklace and ring. 

‘Take these,” she said, ‘‘as a memento of my attachment, and as a 
reward for your fidelity. Betray me not on your soul’s life, and may the 
blessed Virgin you worship be propitious to you as you are true to me.” 

Elsie suffered the jewels to fall from her hand, and casting herself at the 
feet of Blanche, she wrapped her arms about her knees, and implored her, 
with tears and sobs, not to go with that dreadful man. 

“Release me!” cried Blanche, ready to faint with conflicting emotions. 
“* Delay me not a moment longer!’”’ Then snatching her mantle from her 
grasp, and leaving her prostrate and weeping on the floor, she flew down- 
stairs, through the open door, and found herself in the arms of that dark and 
nameless being, to whom she was about to confide herself forever. He bore 
her, almost fainting, into a carriage that was waiting at the gate, and the 
horses, black as night, started off at a furious speed. They left the crowded 
city far behind them, and rode out into the open fields, where the moonbeams, 
unobstructed by high granite walls, shone resplendently upon her pallid face 
and the polished surface of his enamel mask. 

‘Whither are you bearing me?” she faintly asked, as the small pebbles 
flashed fire beneath the horses’ flying hoofs. 

“To a second Eden, where love immortal blooms,” he answered, folding 
her close to his heart. Forward they went with the same bewildering speed. 
The trees swept by them, like dark-green spirits in a rushing dance. Tall 
monuments, gleaming white and ghostly; ghastly and cold, shot swiftly by 
them, in the quivering moonshine. 

“Oh, whither are you bearing me?” again she asked, almost expecting 
him to answer : 

‘See there, see here, the moon shines clear— 
Hurrah, how swiftly speeds the dead!” 


‘““T am bearing you to the gate of Heaven,” he replied; ‘‘for surely the 
house of God is such. Far away in the deep woods there is a Gothic church, 
where a holy priest is waiting to crown with his blessing the purest, deepest 
love that ever bound two trusting hearts in one.” 

‘Oh, mine is all the trust,” she cried, ‘‘ and if I be deceived, mine will be 
all the woe.” 


284 WOMEN OF THE SOUTH. 


‘* As never woman thus loved and trusted,” he passionately exclaimed ; 
‘“so never woman was so supremely blest, as thou, my soul’s beloved, shalt 
- be!” | 

With soothing words and tender protestations and impassioned vows he 
sustained her spirits, and beguiled the length of their moonlight journey. 
At last they beheld the white walls of the sacred edifice glimmering through 
the dark, silver-edged foliage of the trees that embosomed it. The illumi- 
nated arches of the lofty windows told that his words were true, and that 
the holy father there awaited for the bridegroom and the bride. 

‘Courage, my beloved,” he cried, supporting her steps into the vestibule, 
‘your sublime confidence shall soon be rewarded. If it wearies, even now, 
I will restore you to the friends you have quitted for the stranger’s love. 
But if you still cling to me with undoubting faith and triumphant affection, 
come, and the powers of earth cannot rend us asunder.” 

Blanche placed her cold hand in his. Throwing his arm around her, he 
led her toward the illuminated altar, where, clothed in his white robes, with 
the crucifix suspended on his breast, the man of God was standing. Blanche 
sank upon her knees, and bowed her head, till it touched the marble steps of 
the altar. At this moment, as if touched by invisible hands, the deep notes 
of the organ swelled grandly and solemnly on the ear. They gradually rose 
to the full altitude of the lofty dome, when, rolling along the arch, gathering 
volume as they rolled, they burst over the altar in a thunder-peal of melody, 
then murmured softly away, only to swell again in the same magnificent epi- 
thalamium. The illuminated church, the holy priest, the consecrated altar, 
and the grand and solemn music, filled the soul of Blanche with devout 
enthusiasm. Her confidence in her mysterious bridegroom’ deepened and 
strengthened. Ie knelt at her side, with her throbbing hand clasped in his, 
The last notes of the organ reverberated on the ear, and the priest com- 
menced the solemn ceremony. So intense was her agitation, that she did 
not even hear the name of the unknown being—that name that was to be 
henceforth her own. She did not know when the rite was ended, but con- 
tinued with her head bowed, and her loosened hair sweeping the consecrated 
marble. 

‘“ And now, my beloved,” said the divine voice that had with its first 
accent captivated her soul, ‘the hour is come which releases me from the 
vow breathed in the presence of this man of God. Remove the mask, and 
behold the features which, whatever form they bear, are beaming with 
immortal love for thee.” 


CAROLINE LEE HENTZ. 285 


Slowly and tremblingly Blanche raised her head, and turned toward him, 
as he knelt on the lower steps of the altar, and bent till his sable locks 
waved against her snowy dress. 

And now the moment was arrived to which she had looked forward with 
such wild curiosity, with such unutterable hope and dread. Her hand 
refused to obey the impulse of her panting heart. It fell almost lifeless on 
his shoulder, and a thick mist darkened her sight. S 

‘Fear not, rev daughter,” said the deep voice of the priest: ‘Put your 
trust in Heaven, and shrink not from the destiny thou hast chosen, whatever 
it may be. As faith is the most sublime of Christian virtues, so it is the 
most glorious proof of love.” 

These words issuing from the sacerdotal lips, that had so lately blessed , 
her as a bride, gave her a momentary strength. Her fingers passed with 
lingering touch through the luxuriant locks that waved over the ribbon 
which confined the mask. Asshe unloosed the knot, and he gradually began 
to raise his bending head, before she had caught one glimpse of those mys- 
terious features, overcome by the weight of concentrated emotions, she fell 
lifeless on his bosom. 

When she recovered her senses, she found herself lying quietly on the 
carpet of her boudoir, by the side of her overturned harp, whose strings 
were yet vibrating from the sudden fall. Elsie was standing over her with 
a lamp in her hand, in convulsions of laughter. 

‘“‘T would not be laughing if you were hurt,” she cried, setting down her 
lamp and assisting the prostrate beauty, as well as her shaking muscles would 
allow, to resume an upright position. ‘‘ You have had a pleasant nap of it, 
leaning against your harp. It tumbled before I could catch you, or you 
would not be lying here.” | 

“Oh,” cried Blanche, sitting up and rubbing her eyes, “if I had only had 
one glimpse of his face!” 


DE LARA’S BRIDE. 


Ere yet the curtain lifts its veiling fold, 

Now o’er scenes of tragic art unroll’d, 

The eye of hope this brilliant ring surveys, 
And draws prophetic radiance from the gaze. 
The third sad sister of the seraph choir, 

Who wake the music of the deep-toned lyre, 


286 WOMEN OF THE SOUTH. 


This night, presiding genius of the Stage, 

Has searched the hoarded treasures of an age. 
Rich in the dearest memories of earth— 

In chivalry, devotion, valor, worth— 

She comes, with thorns upon her pallid brow, 
Though thorns and sorrow lurk beneath their glow. 
The passions follow darkly in her train, 

Wild as the billows of the storm-swept main ; 
But reason, Nature, vindicate their cause, 

And conscience writhes o’er its insulted laws. 
Who has not felt, when reeling o’er the verge 
Of crimes, to which temptations madly urge, 
An antepast of that undying sting— 

That quenchless fire, prepared for guilt’s dread king; 
And shrunk, as if the Lord’s avenging wrath 
Had placed upbraiding phantoms in their path ? 
To paint these agonies, to show the wreck 

Of Mind’s proud sovereignty when on the neck 
Of unthroned reason Passion victor stands, 
While pale Remorse in stealth its victim brands! 
This is the empire of the heaven-born maid— 
May no polluting steps or realms invade. 

Never may that celestial fire, which erst 

From Pindus’ mount in flames of glory burst, 
Descend to gild that scene where vice maintains 
Its sorcery o’er the slave within its chains— 
Where genius forms unholy league with fame, 
And makes itself immortal by its shame. 

Ye sons of Erudition! classic band! 

Rulers of taste! in this,unshackled land— 

All that ye can, in candor, truth accord, 

To this new candidate of fame award. 

Man’s own justice may relax its frown, 

When woman aims to win the laurel crown. 

Till now, the smiles of partial friends have warm’d 
The germs of fancy, their fond love disarm’d 
Relenting criticism—veil’d in mist 

Each venial error. In the crowded list 


CAROLINE LEE HENTZ. 287 


Of Bards, adventurous champion now she waits, 
As stood the fabled Sylph at Eden’s gates, 
Trembling to know if hers were that bright gift, 
Of power the everlasting bars to lift. 

Daughters of loveliness! we turn to you— 

Stars of the arch, fair bending on the view ; 

Tis yours to kindle that propitious beam 

Whose visioned radiance gilds the poet’s dream, 
To you a sister, in the bard, appeals 

For all that woman most devoutly feels, 

_ Most dearly prizes—pure spontaneous praise. 
Oh! when some unseen hand these folds shall raise, 
May some kind genius o’er the walls preside, 
And more than welcome great De Lara’s Bride. 


THE SNOW FLAKES. 


Ye’re welcome, ye white and feathery flakes, 

That fall like the blossoms the summer wind shakes 
From the bending spray—Oh, say, do ye come, 
With tidings to me from my far distant home? 


‘“‘Our home is above in the depths of the sky, 
In the hollow of God’s own hand we lie— 

We are fair, we are pure, owr birth is divine— 
Say, what can we know of thee, or of thine ?” 


I know that ye.dwell in kingdoms of air— 

I know ye are heavenly, pure, and fair ; 

But oft have I seen ye, far travellers, roam, 

By the cold blast driven, round my northern home. 


‘We roam over mountain, and valley, and sea, 

We hang our pale wreaths on the leafless tree: 

The heralds of wisdom and mercy we go, 

And perchance the far home of thy childhood we know. 


288 


WOMEN OF THE SOUTH. 


“We roam,.and our fairy track we leave, 

While for nature a winding-sheet we weave— 

A cold, white shroud, that shall mantle the gloom, 
Till her Maker recalls her to glory and bloom.” 


Oh, foam of the shoreless ocean above! 

I know thou descendest in mercy and love: 

All chill as thou art, yet benign is thy birth, 

As the dew that impearls the green bosom of Earth. 


And I’ve thought as I’ve seen thy tremulous spray, 
Soft curling like mist on the branches lay 

In bright relief on the dark blue sky, 

That thou meltedst in grief when the sun came nigh. 


‘“‘Say, whose is the harp whose echoing song 
Breathes wild on the gale that wafts us along? 

The moon, the flowers, the blossoming tree, 

Wake the minstrel’s lyre, they are brighter than we.” 


The flowers shed their fragrance, the moonbeams their light, 
Over scenes never veil’d by your drap’ry of white; 

But the clime where I first saw your downy flakes, 

My own native elime is far dearer than all. 


Oh, fair, when ye clothed in their wintry mail, 
The elms that o’ershadow my home in the vale, 
Like warriors they looked, as they bowed in the storm, 
With the tossing plume and the towering form. 


Ye fade, ye melt—lI feel the warm breath 

Of the redolent South o’er the desolate heath— 

But tell me, ye vanishing pearls where ye dwell, 
When the dew-drops of Summer bespangle the dell? 


*¢ We fade—we melt into crystalline spheres— 
We weep, for we pass through a valley of tears ; 
But onward to glory, away to the sky— 

In the hollow of God’s own hand we lie.” 


CAROLINE LEE HENTZ. 289 


A MARTIAL SONG. 


Know ye the place where the white walls rise, 
Mid the waves of ocean gleaming ? 

Where the guardian ramparts meet the eyes, 
And the starry flag is streaming? 


Know ye the spot where at evening’s close, 
And at morning’s early breaking, 

The music of battle inspiringly flows, 
The rock-born echoes waking ? 


Oh! fair is that place, where the sunbeams rest 
-In their glory on the billows; 
Or the moon on her native ocean’s breast, 
Her silvery forehead pillows. 


And fair are those walls with the banner that floats, 
To the waves our triumphs telling ; 

And sweet are those clear and warlike notes, 
On the ocean breezes swelling. 


But fairer still are the glance and smile, 
That beamed there a kindly greeting ; 

And sweeter the heart-born tones the while, 
Our own glad accents meeting. 


In the fortress of war, the home of the bold, 
The spirit of love is residing ; 

And dove-wings furl, with a downy fold, 
Where the eagle in power is presiding. 


We stood on the ramparts, and saw the white surge 
Roll onward, then hoarsely retreating ; 

Or the Indian his bark o’er the blue waters urge, 
Some forest descant repeating. 


19 


290 WOMEN OF THE SOUTH. 


When evening in raiments of silver came on, 
How calm was the current that bore us; 

Around us, like diamonds, the clear ripples shone, 
While the heavens bent glistening o’er us. 


But the ray we loved was flashing afar, 
In titful, revolving glory ; 

It welcomed us back, like a beacon star, 
That watched o’er the battlements hoary. 


Oh, when, lonely sentinel, when wilt thou beam 
On our path to that gem of the ocean ; 

Where life bore the brightness that visits our dream, 
And time had of snow-flakes the motion ? 


SALLY ROCHESTER FORD. 


Tus writer has a distinctive place among Southern authors, | 
as a leading light of the Baptist denomination, and a subtle and 
effective interpreter of its peculiar tenets. | 

She was born at Rochester Springs, Boyle County, Kentucky, 
in 1828. Her father, Col. J. Henry Rochester, is the grand- 
nephew of Nathaniel Rochester, who laid out the city of 
Rochester, New York. The branch of the family from which 
Mrs. Ford descended, emigrated and settled in Kentucky in the 
latter part of the last century, while the country was yet a com- 
parative wilderness. 

- The Rochesters are not unknown to English history, and 
they still confess to a shade of pride as they trace their lineage 
and recount their ancestry. This feeling, doubtless, has had its 
stimulating influence in developing the gifts, and bringing into 
distinction the name of our author. 

She was only in her fourth year, and the eldest of three 
daughters, when she was deprived by death of a mother’s care. 
The loss, however, was providentially supplied by the judicious 
supervision of her maternal grandmother, a woman of great 
mental-and physical vigor, who devoted herself to her grand- 
children with true motherly interest. Accustomed herself to 
out-door exercise, the management of a farm and the superin- 
tendence of a large family, and being withal a woman of highly 
religious character, she appreciated and enforced the kind of 
training which is now apparent in the strong characteristics of 


our writer. 
201 


292 . WOMEN OF THE SOUTH. 


Mrs. Ford, with her sister Cassandra, was educated at 
“ Georgetown Female Seminary,” Kentucky, an institution, 
under the conduct of Prof. J. E. Farnam, which has done much 
for the intellectual and religious culture of that region. From 
the first she gave evidence of talent, and, in 1847, graduated 
with the highest honors of her class. 

In the spring of 1848, she made a public profession of the 
Christian religion, and was baptized by the Rev. D. R. Camp- 
bell, President of Georgetown College, Kentucky, who very 
cordially provides these data. 

Her advantages for acquiring biblical knowledge were 
rather unusual. She was a lover of books and a close student. 
Her uncle, Rev. J. R. Pitts, occupied an adjacent farm, and 
gave her free access to his library and counsel. She cultivated 
the acquaintance of clergymen, especially those of her own 
denomination, and took an intelligent and deep interest in the 
study of the distinguishing principles of their theology. In this 
way she laid the foundation of the skill with which she has 
since defended the faith of her people. 

| In March, 1855, she married the Rev. 8. H. Ford, of Louis- 
ville, Ky. He was at that time pastor of the East Baptist 
ehurch in that city, and connected with the denominational 
press of the State. Shortly after their marriage, he became sole 
proprietor of the “ Christian Repository,” a religious monthly, 
which he has since conducted with much success. 

At this point commenced Mrs. Ford’s career as a writer. 
She contributed short articles to the “ Repository ” until she 
acquired ease and confidence, then, encouraged by her husband, 
began the serial of “ Grace Truman,” which was brought out 
in the monthly numbers of that magazine. This story at once. 
attracted the attention of the public. The ‘“ Repository,” went 
up rapidly, and Mrs. Ford’s reputation as a denominational 
writer was gradually established. 


SALLY ROCHESTER FORD. 293 


In 1857, this work was published by Sheldon & Co., of New 
York, and in a short time reached a sale of thirty thousand 
copies. As a lucid and forcible presentation of distinctive 
tenets, it has, and must ever hold, an important place in reli- 
gious literature. 

During the present year, Mrs. Ford has given to the world 
another book, entitled “ Mary Bunyan.” In this volume she 
traces, with graphic power, the persecution and intolerance by 
which the author of “ Pilgrim’s Progress” was prepared for his 
immortal work. It carries in itself all the elements of success, 
and cannot fail to achieve it. 

Besides these labors, Mrs. Ford shares largely in the edito- 
rial charge of the ‘“ Repository,” and is, in every respect, her 
husband’s faithful coadjutor. Combining, also, the best qua- 
lities of the social, domestic, and Christian woman, she esta- 
blishes her “ right,” by proving her abilty, to occupy a wide and 
comprehensive ‘ sphere.” 


¢ 


MY FATHER’S WILL. 


I have lately come into the possession of an inheritance. It was left me 
by my father in his will. My father is in a far distant country. I am every 
day hastening to this glorious home where my father is. I say glorious 
home; and so it is. JI have not seen it yet, but my father has said it, and I - 
believe. The walls are of precious stones, and the gates thereof are of pearl, 
and the streets of pure gold. Sometimes, in thinking of this home, I grow 
almost impatient, because I am so long a sojourner here. But I must wait 
patiently for my father to send for me. He doeth all things well. When all 
things are ready—when the glorious mansion which he has gone to prepare 
for me is complete, then he will send for me. I shall then go to be with him 
forever. al ; 

I have never seen my father; but I know he is my father. I know it 
from several reasons. And the bestowal of this last estate, into the posses- 
sion of which I have so recently entered, is unmistakable evidence of it. If 


294 WOMEN OF THE SOUTH. 


I had doubted it before, I could not now. To do so would be to doubt my 
father’s word, and my father never lies. With him there is no variableness 
nor shadow of turning. All of his words are ‘‘ Yea and Amen.” 

I have often wondered why my father left such an estate as this to his 
children—have tried again and again to solve this question. And after all 
my endeavors I can only conclude, ‘Even so, Father, for thus it seemeth 
good in thy sight.” My father, no doubt, knows that it is necessary for his 
children that they have this inheritance, and, therefore, before he left this 
exile world, he sealed it up as a part of his will and testament to them. It 
is needful for their good here, and for a full preparation for entering upon 
that inheritance which is incorruptible, undefiled, and fadeth not away.- My 
father has sufficient reasons for all he does. He is infinite in justice, wisdom, 
and love. : 

Before my father departed to go into the far country where he now is, he 
willed to me, his child, several estates, various in character and value; and 
the parchments on which these last testaments were written were sealed up 
with different-colored seals, each seal indicative of the character of the estate 
the parchment bestowed. I have examined each roll and seal closely, and I 
find they all bear the impress of my father’s seal of state. I cannot be mis- 
taken about this. My father is too wise and just to leave his children in the 
least uncertainty with regard to anything he would have them know. 

My father has not only left these various inheritances, but he has also 
wisely ordered the times at which I shall enter into their possession. But. 
these times, in his wisdom and love, he has kept hidden from my 
view. 

Many of the parchment-rolls, with their respective-colored seals, have 
been opened, and I have immediately entered upon the possession of the 
estates they have conferred on me. And they have been pleasant inheri- 
tances—goodly lands, flowing with milk and honey. No nectar, no ambrosia 
could equal the glorious repasts which I have enjoyed from my father’s 

liberal hand. My father has been very kind tome. I have often thought he 
favored me above most of his children. True, my possessions have not been 
large, compared with the standard of this world, but then there has always 
been such glorious sunshine on my estates—such sweet music ever sounding 
in my ears, and such glad, happy faces always arounf* me, my cup of joy 
has been full. I have tried to feel very thankful for all these blessed gifts, 
and while I was in the enjoyment of them, I thought I was grateful. Alas! 
alas! what gratitude. 


SALLY ROCHESTER FORD. 295 


In the archives of my father’s house, where his wills of his children are 
kept, I have often seen one marked for me, and sealed with a black seal. It 
bore his signet, therefore I could not but know it was genuine. As I have 
said, I have often seen it among the deeds of other estates. I never liked to 
look at it, or think upon it, and somehow I always hoped that perhaps my 

father would never have it opened. I knew the title was to an estate in the 
valley of Baca. I knew, too, this valley of Baca was a. destitute region, a 
land of bitterness and drought. I had read of it, and I had seen some of my 
father’s children who had been on their estates in this valley. 

_I often wondered if my father would ever bid me go and dwell there. I 
knew he was all love, and as he had always been so lavish in his blessings to 
me, I have concluded he intended to spare me this great trial. Blind I was, 
and slow of heart to believe. But whenever the fear came over me, I turned 
shudderingly from the view; and often I have prayed, ‘If it be possible, 
Father, let this cup pass from me.” 

Sometimes I have feared this_black seal would be broken, and then I have 
been filled with dreadful apprehension. Then I shuddered, and drew back 
from the prospect. My faith grew faint, my heart chill, and I was almost 
ready to doubt all good. But knowing that my father, though unseen by 
me, could hear my petition, I have gone away alone, and besought my father 
to spare me this trial. Sometimes, again, when I have been in the happy 
possession of my goodly heritage, I have felt that my father was too merci. 
ful ever to command me or his agents to break that black-seal roll. J] 
knew he was a kind father, and would not willingly afflict me. And J 
could see no reason why I should ever dwell in the valley of Baca. Was] 
not my father’s obedient child? 

Thus flattering myself, I had ceased to dread the opening of the black 
seal parchment roll. Indeed, I had almost forgotten that it was among 
my father’s testaments to me. 

But my father is never mistaken with regard to the good of his chil- 
dren. He knows all things—sees the end from the beginning. He well 
knew, long before I was a pilgrim, what would be needful for me in 
this country where I now sojourn; therefore he left this dreaded will. 
And he knew, too, just when it was best for me it should be opened, 
and long ago he gave his agent direction concerning it. But I did not 
know it. I had not watched and prayed as my father had commanded, 
else might I have known more of his will concerning me. And then I 
‘ should not have been so distressed when this seal was broken.. 


296 WOMEN OF THE SOUTH. 


I have been dwelling for some’ months in this valley of Baca—this 
landWor bitterness. 

But I must tell you something of my removal thither. I was in pos- 
session of the last estate my father, as yet, had ever bestowed upon me. 
I was very, very happy. And thought, too, that I was accomplishing his 
will according to his written directions. I thought I was endeavoring 
with all my power to carry out his command, endeavoring to labor in 
his vineyard. And I now feel this sore trial is anticipative rather than 
retrospective, to prepare me for what is to come, rather than to chastise 
me for what is past. I feel so, not because I am good, but because my 
father is good. 

One day, in the very midst of my happiness, and when I was least 
expecting such a thing, there came suddenly to me a messenger to tell me 
that I must leave my glorious possessions, and take up my abode in the valley 
of Baca. 

‘It cannot be,” said I, in consternation, for fearful forebodings seized my 
very soul. “Are you sure your message is true? Are you not mis- 


taken?” 


‘Not mistaken,” he replied, ‘‘it is the will of your father.” 

“The will of my father!” I exclaimed, full of apprehension. (The will 
of my father. I could not rebel against it.) ‘‘But how am I to know that 
you tell me is true ?” 

‘‘ Here,” said he, handing me the parchment, with its horrid black seal. 
‘‘ Here, read for yourself.” 

I took it. The sealwas broken. I opened it and read: “ Yea, and all 
they who will live godly in Christ Jesus, shall suffer persecution.” 

I looked at it closely. There was no mistake. It was forme. I read 
a little further on. ‘‘My grace shall be sufficient for thee.” “It is 
enough,” I said, ‘‘ Ill ask no more,” and immediately I removed to the 
valley of Baca, where I now dwell. 

As you may well suppose, when I first removed thither, I was almost in 
despair. It seemed to me that I could not live. I was overwhelmed by sor- 
row. There was no light, but blackness, blackness, everywhere. Oh, I can- 


“not tell you how dark—how deeply dark this blackness was! Words are 


too poor to describe it. I felt that my father had utterly forsaken me. I 
felt that all my father’s children had forsaken me. Like my brother Job of 
old, I exclaimed, ‘‘ The thing which I greatly feared has come upon me, and 
that which I was afraid of, is come unto me.’ And with David, “ My God, 


SALLY ROCHESTER FORD. 297 


my God, why hast thou forsaken me?—why art thou so far from helping 
me ?” 

I knew not whither to look. My heart was broken with grief. My head 
was bowed to the earth. All the kind words of my father, all his former 
blessings, all his sure words of promise—were but bitterness tome. They 
were sharp arrows that pierced my soul. 

The valley of Baca I found a desert-place; no pools nor wells of water, 
and I was parched with thirst. Neither date nor fig-tree, and I was starv- 
ing with hunger. I could only think, and suffer. Remembrances of the 
pleasant lands from which I had come, only served to render the desolation 
and darkness of the valley the more horrible. I tried to reason with myself. 
I said, ‘“‘ This is for my good, else my father would not have ordered it. I 
need to be won from this world. I need to be purified from the dross of 
this wicked nature. My father will grant me deliverance by and by. I must 
bear it all patiently.” 

While I soliloquized thus, two hideous figures, with dark, dread counte- 
nances, came and stood beside me, and offered to be my companions as long 
as I should dwell in this horrid place. They were Doubt and Despair. I 
shrunk back from their demon presence. They laughed and mocked at my 
anguish. Doubt, with fiendish delight, whispered in my ear, ‘‘ Only through 
the swelling Jordan, which lies just beyond the precincts of this valley, 
shall you reach your father’s bosom.” Then Despair took up the frightful 
threatening: “You'll never reach there,” he shouted with malicious joy. 
‘“This is your only inheritance. Your father has forgotten you. He no 
longer regards your cries and tears.” Andhe grinned a horrid, ghastly grin, 
as I sunk beneath the hopeless sentence. 

Oh, my father’s children, never, never shall I forget this dark and trying 
hour. If you have never been thus visited, you cannot appreciate what I 
say, though it were written in words of living light. And if you have, 
then I need not tell you. You know it all. Such seasons are never for- 
gotten. | 

After atime these dreadful ministers left me to myself. I spared their 
companionship, for I felt that they were not sent by my father. Then there 
came a ray of light, faint and feeble at first, but gradually it served to light 
me on my way to this dark valley. I knew it was from my father, and I 
rejoiced that he had not forgotten me in my low estate. I remembered 
all his previous promises, and that he had said they were all ‘‘ yea and amen.” 
And when I remembered, too, that this heavy affliction had been appointed 


998 WOMEN OF THE SOUTH. 


me, and that I had been forewarned of it, I felt to reproach myself for my | 
want of confidence in my father’s goodness, - 

When I had somewhat come to myself, and began clearly to realize my 
situation (for heretofore I was as one benumbed with grief), I gave myself 
to prayer and supplication. I knew my father’s ear was ever open to my 
ery, though Despair, for a season, had made me believe otherwise—that his 
heart was beating with love and compassion for me, and that for my good, 
but not willingly, had he afflicted me. 

I asked my father for strength; I asked him for guidance; I asked him 
that his grace might perfect me nae suffering. And oftentimes, when 
this valley has been darkest, and when I have been most closely beset by my 
enemies, have I been made to rejoice in my afflictions, knowing that they 
were working out for me a far more exceeding and eternal weight of glory. 
I have had seasons of darkest trial since I have entered upon this possession. 
But then I have had seasons of sweet comfort, too, for I have felt persuaded 
that ‘“‘neither death, nor life, nor powers, nor principalities, nor things pre- 
sent, nor things to come, nor height, nor depth,” shall ever be able to sepa- 
rate me from the love of my father. All things are his, and he is mine. 

I have oftentimes thirsted in this place, but of late this valley of Baca 
hath become a well; the rain, also, filleth the pools. And I sometimes now 
hear my father’s cheering voice, bidding me faint not. And day by day J am 
pressing on to that glorious country that eye hath never seen. 

It may be that I am to abide here until I am called up to my inheritance 
above. If it be my father’s will, I would cheerfully acquiesce. It cannot be 
a great while before I shall be called to my father’s house. Therefore, let 
me not be faint. A glorious home awaits me, and when I shall get there, all 
my present sorrows shall be swallowed up in ecstatic bliss. Darkness shall 
be exchanged for light; tears for joy; trial and suffering for bliss which 
shall never end. I shall be forever with my father, and he shall wipe all 
tears from my eyes. 


MRS. GRAY. 


Mrs. Gray was a kind-hearted, energetic woman, and a model house- 
keeper. Looking well to the success of her household, and everything from 
garret—yes, garret, for theirs was an old-fashioned country-house, which 
boasted of a garret, not an attic—to cellar, bore indisputable marks of neat- 


SALLY ROCHESTER FORD. 299 


ness and good order; not that straight-laced primness which impresses even 
the most fastidious with a feeling of uncomfortableness and fear. What a 
pity it is that some housekeepers will torment themselves to death to make 
everybody and everything about them unpleasant! Always brushing, dust- 
ing, polishing, and hopelessly miserable whenever a truant scrap from a 
neighbor’s scissors finds its way to the carpet, until it is picked up and 
unmistakably committed to the flames, 

The children of such a household are filled with oid-maidish ways sberare 
they reach their teens; prim, spiritless creatures, destitute of all naturalness, 
and fit only to talk about ‘‘order and proprieties.” I pity the mother of 
such walking systems ; my heart. aches for the children of such proper 
mothers. Rather let me have the ringing laugh and bounding feet, though 
that laugh may reach a note above the octave of propriety, and the bounding 
feet bring home soiled stockings and untidy shoes. For mercy’s sake, let 
children be children as long as they will. Then shall we see more men and 
women, and fewer young ladies of fashion, and dandies of the first water; 
more heart and sense, and less puling sentimentality, and aping the would- 
be-great ; then would there be a page health current of common sense, moral- 
ity, and religion, running through the whole frame-work of society, giving 
to it vigorous life and progress. 


THE RETREAT. 


It was a happy home, this little whitewashed cottage that Grace had 
named the ‘‘ Retreat.” Let us look at it a moment, about four weeks after 
it had become the habitation of Grace. 

Pleasantly situated on an eminence, with beautiful grounds around, it 
stood just without the village, of which it commanded a fine view, The 
road ran in sight, but not near enough to make it a public place ; a footpath 
spanned the meadow that intervened between it and Mount Airy, which 
could be seen from the south window of Grace’s room. Behind the house, 
from the back of the garden, the fields, now in a state of high cultivation, 
trended away to the background of woodland which skirted the horizon. A 
large beech-tree, which in summer time threw its shade half over the little 
front yard, stood to the right as you approached the latticed porch, which 
had recently been added. The few rose-bushes, and cedars, standing equi- 
distant from each other, along the front fence, had been robbed of all super- 


300 WOMEN OF THE SOUTH. 


fluous growth. And the lilac, which stood to the left, as if in mimic oppo- 
sition to the beech, had also undergone the trimming process, and looked so 
fresh and green as almost to give promise of a second flowering. Newly- 
spaded flower-beds, with annual fall flowers just breaking the mold with 
their tender heads, bordered the pavement. The garden, too, had been 
ploughed, and planted in such things as would mature before the coming of 
the frost. Everything, within and without, gave evidence of neatness and 
thrift, for Grace, though a very young housekeeper, was a very good one; 
and Aunt Peggy found that her province was to suggest, rather than to direct. 

The sun threw a glorious radiance over meadow and fields, stole in 
through the open window and past the snowy muslin curtain, falling in a 
quiver of golden arrows at the feet of Grace, as she sat in her sewing-chair 
finishing a piece of floss-work. Her husband, just returned from the busi- 
ness of the day, for he yet overlooked his father’s farm, was resting on the 
lounge at her side, telling her of the occurrences of the day, to which she 
was listening with deep interest. The tea-table, with its stainless cloth and 
glistening furniture, stood in the centre of the room. To the right of Grace 
was her work-stand, on which rested a vase of roses and cedar, to which had 
been added the field-flowers brought her by her husband; and the weekly 
journal, which it was his habit to read aloud after the day’s business was 
finished, lay by the side of the flower-vase. In the corner was a table of 
books and magazines, which were Grace’s companions when her husband 
was away. Jane was in the kitchen getting supper; and old Aunt Peggy, 
having seen that all was right in that department, had gone to gather up the 
chickens and put them in their respective coops before it was dark, for there 
was a mink somewhere in the neighborhood, and she could not trust them in 
the hen-house. 

Surely into this little Eden no serpent will ever enter; over this love-lit 
dwelling no cloud will ever gather ! 

Grace had many pleasant visitors to enliven the hours of her husband’s 
absence; for her gentleness and sincerity had won for her numerous friends 
in the village and country. It was a delightful walk to the ‘‘ Retreat,” and 
it was a charming place at which to spend an hour or two when one was 
there. Mrs. Holmes and Fannie often came to pass the day or evening, and 
their kindness and love to her in some measure made amends for old Mr. 
Holmes’s ill-treatment. He rarely ever called, and when he did, it was to 
see his son on business. His manner toward Grace continued cold and for- 
bidding. 


SALLY ROCHESTER FORD. 301 


Could it be expected of him to come down from the heights of his dig- 
nity when she persisted in her advocacy of such erroneous opinions? Oh, 
no! Not one jot or tittle would he yield. ‘‘He would show her what it 
was to hold out against his desire. Such obstinacy and narrow-mindedness 
deserved to be punished with the utmost severity. How dared she oppose 
the teachings of his church, to withstand the opinions of the learned and 
wise? Was such presumption ever known before? But he would bring her 
to—yes, that he would! She must be made to feel the extent of her imperti- 
nence: it might take some time to accomplish it, for she was pretty stiff- 
necked; but it should be done; no daughter-in-law of his should be a 
Baptist: he would not stand the disgrace.” Thus he reasoned with himself, 
and thus he acted. ‘ 

Grace was pierced to the heart by his treatment, for she fully understood 
his motives; but she remembered the promise, ‘“‘I am with you always,” 
and was strengthened to bear the burden. 

Mr. Lewis often came to sit with them till after tea. He loved the quiet 
and home-like appearance of the little whitewashed cottage. It was usual 
for him, on such occasions, to report his progress in the study of the bap- 
tismal question, and to engage ing conversation with Grace on that subject. 
At such times Mr. Holmes proved an attentive listener ; laying on the lounge, 
he would give earnest heed to what was being said, often asking questions, 
or making comments. It was evident he was interested, and was determined 
to avail himself of Mr. Lewis’ study without much exertion to himself. On 
one occasion, after having given very close attention to his cousin’s proof in 
favor of believer’s baptism, he rose, and approaching him, said, in quite an 
earnest manner : 

‘TI believe, Ed, that you and Grace will make a Baptist of me yet.” 
Then, after a pause, he added: ‘‘ But what is the use for me to change? 
You have no church here, if I should be converted to your views, for me to 
join.” . 

“Father Miller has promised to preach for us in Weston next fall, you 
know, Mr. Holmes,” said Grace, catching at the faintest shadow of. promise 
of change in his views, ‘‘ and you will then have an opportunity to show us 
whether our arguments have convinced you or not,” and the young wife 
regarded her husband with an expression half playful, half earnest. 

‘‘Y shall give no promises for the future, for fear I shall not perform 
them; we will wait until Father Miller shall come, and then see.” 


302 WOMEN OF THE SOUTH. 


= 


AUNT PEGGY A LOGICIAN. 


- “De bud is very bitter to you, Miss Gracey, I know it is, chile, but de 
flower, when it comes, will be mity sweet. De Lord never forsakes his 
- chil’ren, blessed be his name.” 

‘‘But, Aunt Peggy, suppose I am mistaken in my belief of what is my 
duty, you know God will never bless me in this course; I cannot expect it. 
If I should act differently, it might be the means of saving my husband; all 
of his friends think so; and oh, Aunt Peggy, to accomplish this I would make 
any sacrifice—would do anything that is right.” And the weeping wife 
buried her face in her hands, and sobbed alouds ‘‘ And you know, Aunt 
Peggy,” she added, after the outburst of her deep grief had somewhat sub- 
sided, ‘‘that Baptists look upon Presbyterians as good Christian people, and 
the children of God, and agree with them on all the essential points of doc- 
trine. Then why can’t I join with them in celebrating an ordinance which 
he has commanded ad/ of his followers to observe? How could there be any 
wrong in my doing this, Aunt Peggy ?” 

‘‘ Well, now, Miss Gracey, I will tell you how I looks upon it. It ’pears 
to me like dis: I went down to de store last week to buy dat new calico 
gown you was a making dis mornin’, and arter de calico was rolled up, I 
untied de corner of my handkercher an’ gin Massa Ray, Miss Fannie’s beau, 
dare, a dollar; he looked at it, and handed it back to me. I was took by 
surprise, I tells you, and said, ‘Massa Ray, ain’t dat good silver?’ ‘Yes, 
Aunt Peggy,’ said he, ‘it is good silver.’ ‘What do you mean, den?’ says 
I; ‘I knows it is good, and no counterfeiter, for I’s rung it more’n a 
dozen times, and it’s jes as clar as a bell; why don’t you take it, Massa 
Ray?’ ‘It’s good silver, Aunt Peggy, excellent stuff;’ said he, a kind a 
laughing. ‘ Well, I wish you would tell me what you mean,’ says I, 
growin’ more an’ more puzzled; ‘if it is gennywine, what is de reason 
you don’t keep it? don’t you take such money?’ ‘Yes, Aunt Peggy, just 
as much of it as I can get. I wish I could have thousands of it every 
day.’ ‘Well, why don’t you take it den?’ ‘ Well,’ said he, bustin’ out 
into de biggest laugh you ever heerd, ‘I don’t take it, Aunt Peggy, just 
because@it ain’t a dollar, it wants five cents of it; it’s only a five franc 
piece.’ Now, Miss Gracey, it’s jes so wid Presbyterians; dey is mity good 
silver, an’ we Baptists is willin’ to take dem for jes what dey is worth; 
but dey ain’t a dollar, I tell you! dey wants de five cents.” 


SALLY ROCHESTER FORD. | 303 


Grace and Fannie were much impressed with the old servant’s apt 
illustration. For a moment neither of them made any reply. At length, 
as if a new thought had struck her, Fannie said: . 

“But Aunt Peggy, if Mr. Ray had chosen, he could have taken your 
five franc piece, couldn’t he?” 

The old woman saw the point in her question, and answered . 
quickly. 

‘“No, no, Miss Fannie, it is not lef’ to Massa Ray to do as he pleases 
in dis matter. Mr. Matthews ’spects him to mind what he says; an’ it 
is jes so wid us; we mus’ follow de Master’s command; we doesn’t dar’ 
to change it. If he had lef’ us to do as we pleased, we might commune 
wid ali Christian people; but you know he told all dat partakes of de 
emblems of his broken body and spilt blood jirst to be baptized, an’ dis is de 
reason why we Baptists can never break bread wid dose dat has only been 
sprinkled. Don’t you see dis, Miss Gracey ?” 


THE BAPTISM. 


It was a beautiful spot, the one selected for the baptism. The creek, 
having passed over a dam a few yards above, spread out, at this point, in a 
smooth, tranquil sheet, whose erystal waters, like a mirror, sent back from 
its unruffled surface the glorious light of heaven. On the further side from 
the village, there stretched back, from the banks of the stream, a little 
meadow, now clad in its garment of russet and green, while all along the 
edge of the water there stood gigantic old sycamores, whose leafless branches 
stili bent caressingly over the child of their bosom, though they could no 
longer give her protection from the noon-day sun. Their infancy had looked 
on a race long since gone! their age was now to witness, for the first time, 
the celebration of a simple rite, which had its origin in the far-off wilder- 
ness of Judea, and which had beeen preserved by the faithful followers of 
their Master, through the fall of nations and the decay of empires, through 
trials, and persecution, and blood. Surely not one jot or tittle shall pass 
away till all be fulfilled. 

On the side next the village, there was a gradual descent to within a few 
yards of the edge of the water, where the bank extended itself into a smooth, 
level plat, from the dam above to the little foot-bridge a few hundred yards 
below. Nature seemed to have designed that spot for the administration of 


304 WOMEN OF THE SOUTH. 


the most beautiful and solemn ordinance of the word of God, so admirably 
was it adapted to the purpose. 

The day, too, was a lovely one. Earth, air, and sky, all conspired to 
throw an additional charm around the impending rite. The sun looked 
down from the blue heavens above upon the quiet scene below, with a smile 
of glorious effulgence; the air wearing that peculiar softness of November, 
tempered, while it diffused his brightness and his glory. Earth seemed 
wrapped in holy repose, such as we imagine enshrouded Eden during the 
sabbath of sinless rest, ere the taste of the forbidden fruit ‘brought death 
and all our woe.” . 

‘‘ And will you not go to see me baptized, father?” asked Fannie, tremu- 
lously, of the old man, as he sat in the corner, with downcast eyes, and that 
dark, dreadful frown crowning his brow. She was all ready to step into the 
carriage. , 

He looked at her a moment, as if surprised at her question. 

‘““Go to see you baptized, Fannie! No, that I won’t. I can see no 
daughter of mine dipped!” 

She leaned over him and kissed his darkened brow, while the silent tears 
coursed each other down her sorrowful cheeks. 

‘For thee, my Saviour, for thee!” she exclaimed to herself, as, with 
breaking heart, she turned away. Her mother gently took her hand, and led 
her to the carriage, which stood ready at the door. Mr. Lewis was awaiting 
them. He gazed on his cousin with an expression of the deepest sympathy, 
and whispering in her ear, ‘‘ Fear not, Fannie, he will be with you,” handed 
her into the carriage, and seating himself by her side, they drove to the 
water. 

The minister, with Mr. Holmes and Grace, Annie and her brother, 
together with most of the little band, stood on the brow of the declivity, 
awaiting them. Mr. Holmes’ countenance beamed with joy and love. His 
heart was filled with that confidence and hope which lift the soul above the 
present life, and give to it visions of the unseen glory. His faith was “ the 
substance of things hoped for,” the sure evidence of things not seen. 

As the little company wended their way down the slope, they sung that 
stirring song: 
‘In all my Lord’s appointed ways 
My journey I’ll pursue ; 
Hinder me not, ye much-loved saints, 
For I must go with you. 


SALLY ROCHESTER FORD. 305 


“* Through duty, and through trials, too, 
Pll go at his command ; 
Hinder me not, for I am bound, 


For my Immanuel’s land. 


‘¢ And when my Saviour calls me home, 
Still this my cry shall be: 
‘ Hinder me not, come, welcome death, 
Pll gladly go with thee.’ ” 


The effect upon the audience was magical. It was hushed to the pro- 
foundest silence. Those* who had come from motives of curiosity were 
melted to tears; those who had come to laugh and jeer, were seized, as if 
under conviction for sin; a feeling of awe pervaded the whole assembly. 
The Spirit of God was in their midst, and they could not, they wished not 
to deride and mock. Old and young; men in the noontide of strength and 
vigor, indifferent and unmoved about their soul’s salvation; young men in 
life’s spring-time, regardless of any duty to God; matrons and maidens, all 
were overcome by the impressiveness of the solemn scene; and tears found 
their way to eyes that seldom wept. 

Still the little band moved on with slow and solemn step; still their notes 
of praise rung out on the hushed air. 

Fannie leaned upon the arm of Mr. Lewis. Her heart was sad, bowed 
even nigh to breaking, for on it rested the weight of her father’s sore dis- 
pleasure. Mr. Lewis, whose soul was fixed upon the promises of Jehovah, 
who felt all the comfort, all the bliss of faith in our Lord Jesus Christ, and 
all the happiness of entire obedience to his commands—whose every feature 
bespoke the peace and joy of “believing,” endeavored to reassure her as 
they passed on; but “‘a wounded spirit who can bear?” 

Her soul was racked beneath the conflict of contending emotions; she 
felt that she was giving up all earthly happiness. She was acting in direct 
opposition to her father’s expressed will; and that father, bowed down by 
the grief of her disobedience, had positively refused to see her baptized. 
She was severing herself from all her early associations. Those she had 
known from her childhood days, whose hearts had treasured her with a sis- 
ter’s love, would now turn from her cold and indifferent ; and there was one 
far dearer to her than all other friends beside; one to whom she had given 
her highest, holiest, earthly love, and she was now about to meet the doom 

20 


306 ; WOMEN OF THE SOUTH. ; 

of separation from him—from all she loved. She wondered if he would be 
there, or would he stay away and thus manifest his disapprobation of her 
course. She prayed, oh so fervently, that God would direct his steps thither, 
and there convince him, by his own mighty power, of the obligation that 
yet rested upon him as a follower of the blessed Redeemer. ‘‘ Grant me 
this, O my Father! I ask no more; lead him in the paths of all righteous- 
~ ness for thy name’s sake.” ; 

She leaned heavily on the arm of her cousin for support. She was almost 
ready to sink beneath the burden of her sorrows. Her mother followed 
behind her; her deep sobbings fell upon her ear during the intervals between 
the words of the song, and pierced her bosom to its deepest depths. 

Mrs. Holmes clung to her daughter with that love which only a mother’s 
heart can feel under such trying circumstances. She did not disapprove the 
act her daughter was about to perform; she thought only of the painful, 
fearful consequences to her affectionate nature. How dark, oh how very 
dark did the future appear as it arrayed itself before her! She fully com- 
prehended her daughter’s situation; she knew what must be the effects of 
blighted hope on a heart so young, so pure, so trusting; and she knew, too, 
that to all this sorrow would be added that of,her father’s unmitigated dis- 
approbation. If that father had but come to see his daughter baptized, it 
would have been some consolation; but he would not. The mother’s heart, 
as well as the daughter’s, was well-nigh breaking. Her faith was dimmed to 
darkness ; she saw the picture in its deepest shadow, and could not realize 
that light could ever gild its blackness. | 

As they approached the stream, the crowd parted on either side, and 
they passed through to the water’s edge. As the last words of the gong: 
died away, there was a stillness as of the grave. Lifting his trembling 
hands on high, the aged man offered up a short, beseeching prayer to God 
for his blessing on what was now to be done in his name, that grace might 
be given to those who were there to testify to the world their love to Christ 
and their willingness to follow him in all of his commands ; to grant to them 
that “perfect love which casteth out all fear.” 

And with his went up from the stricken heart at his side, earnest suppli- 
cation, ‘‘ Be with me, O my God, be with me! Give me strength to do thy 
will! O take not thy presence from me in this my hour of need! I do it 
all for thee—in obedience to thy command! I leave father and mother, kin- 
dred and friends, all—all to follow thee! .O leave me not, nor forsake me! 
still my strength and helper be! Support me! O support me!” 


SALLY ROCHESTER FORD. 307 


And there came a voice as if from heaven, saying: ‘‘Fear not; lo! I am 
with you, follow me. I will be thy guide and support; I bled that thou 
mightst live; I poured out my soulin death for thy redemption. Canst thou 
not trust me? Look up, look up, and see me on the cross bleeding, dying, 
that thow mightst be saved. Have I not said, every one that hath forsaken 
houses, or brethren, or sisters, or father, or mother, or wife, or children, or 
lands, for my name’s sake, shall receive a hundredfold, and shall inherit ever- 
lasting life. J have kept thee thus far, and can I not preserve thee to the 
end ?” 

She could trust; she did trust! And as the prayer closed, she threw aside 
her yeil, and those around her saw her face beaming, as it had been the face 
of an angel. All fear, all doubt was gone. ‘‘She knew in whom she had 
trusted.” 

Giving her bonnet to Annie Gray, who stood by her side, $he took the 
arm of her brother, and followed the minister and Mr, Lewis into the water. 
As she stood, her hair thrown back from her calm brow, and her hands 
folded on her peaceful bosom, while a smile of ineffable sweetness and truth 
lighted up her placid face, she presented a picture of unearthly loveliness, 
And never, in coming time, did that vision pass from the remembrance of 
those that saw her. There was one beholder who perceived it in all its 
intensity and power; it had burned itself in upon his heart in ever-enduring 
characters, and often in after years did he revert to it with feelings akin to 
adoration. 3 

On a slight eminence, and a little way above the stream,and apart from 
the crowd, there stood a man, his form enveloped in a cloak, and his hat 
shading his face. No one observed, him, for alleyes were directed to the 
group in the water. But there he stood alone, with folded arms and down- 
cast look, while the big tears followed each other down his sorrowful 
cheeks. 

“There are three that bear record in heaven, the Father, the Word, and 
the Holy Ghost, and these three are one. And there are three that bear 
witness on earth, the Spirit, and the water, and the blood, and these three 
agree in one. 

‘¢ And in obedience to the command of my Lord and Saviour, and after 
his example, I baptize thee in the name of the Father, and the Son, and the 
Holy Ghost. Amen.” 

A moment, and Mr, Lewis arose from the liquid grave, to walk in 
newness of life. ) 


308 WOMEN OF THE SOUTH. 


Fannie stood with closed eyes, while her brother submitted to the ordi- 
nance which publicly testified his death to sin, and his resurrection to a life 
of faith and holiness. Her heart was communing with her Saviour, she was 
tasting of that bliss which the soul feels, when God from off the mercy-seat 
reveals himself to man. 

Her lips moved, but no sound was heard. When it came to her turn to 
be “buried with Christ in baptism,” she cast an earnest searching glance 
upon the crowd; then closing her eyes, she was “planted in the likeness of 
the Saviour’s death,” that she might ‘be also in the likeness of his resur- 
rection.” 

As she arose, she said, so as to be heard by all near, “I thank thee, O my 
God, that thou hast given me strength to do thy will; praise the Lord, O my 
soul, and all that is within me bless his holy name!” 

As she reached the bank she was caught in the arms of her mother, who, 
with tears of joy, pressed her to her heart. ‘‘ Bless de Lord! bless de Lord!” 
was heard above the voice of the surrounding weeping, and old Aunt Peggy 
was seen making her way to where the group stood, exclaiming as she went, 
‘‘ Bless de Lord! bless de Lord!” She shook the hand of each, while her 
happy old face was bathed in tears, and her soul too full of joy for aught save 
praise to God for his great mercy. And as she passed through the crowd, 
shaking the hand of all she met, her overflowing heart gushed forth in thanks- 
giving and love, 


a 


SUSAN ARCHER TALLEY. 


Hap Miss Talley been born under the shadow of the Boston 
State House, her “ Ennerslie,” “Con Elgin,” “Lady of Lodee,” 
and poems of a similar stamp, would have made her a conspi- 
cuous spoke in the wheel within wheel—the orbit of the literary 
elect—around that “ hub of the universe.” Her Muse has many 
points in sympathy with that of Longfellow, and some of her 
poenis are, in the best sense, Tennysonian; yet she is in no 
respect an imitator. She does not belong to the school of 
aspirants who affect the irregularities and ambiguities of 
Tennyson; but she has quaffed with him from the same dim 
shadowy outlets of Hippocrene, and with qualities of mind some- 
what akin, though undeveloped and unequal, “ bodies forth ” 
her ideals in cadences of her own. | 

Miss Talley is descended, on the paternal side, from a 
Huguenot refugee, who settled on an estate in Hanover County, 
Virginia, about the same time with the Fontaine family, whose 
memoirs we have in “ A Tale of the Huguenots.” In this old 
homestead, still in the possession of the family, our poet was 
born, and here she passed the first eight years of her childhood. 

Her father, a gentleman of fine tone and talents, gave early 
promise of eminence in his profession of the law ; unfortunately, 
however, a constitutional diffidence which in a measure unfitted 
him for public speaking, together with a sensitiveness entirely 
opposed to the harsh experiences of his office, induced him to 
resign the practice of his profession. To those who are fond of 

309 


- 


310 WOMEN OF THE SOUTH. 


tracing the possession of genius to hereditary induction, it may 
be interesting to observe how, in this instance, the mental 
endowments and keen sensibilities of the father, are repeated in 
the daughter, and, as it were, heightened into the poetical 
temperament. 

Among the traits earliest developed in Miss Talley, were 
extreme fearlessness and love of liberty. Before she was five 
years of age, she delighted in wandering about the estate, alone 
or accompanied by her huge Newfoundland dog, Trim, explor- 
ing lonely woods, pathless meadows, and gloomy hollows, where 
other children could not be induced to venture. She had ‘Trim’s 
own fondness for the water, and when sought, after long hours 
of absence, was generally found wading in a stream in a wild 
frolic with the dog, or sitting quietly on the bank, watching the 
flow of the waves. | | 

It is said that she was never known to betray a sign of fear ; 
and that at this age, in her visits to the neighbors, she would 
unhesitatingly face and subdue by her caresses the fiercest dogs, 
which even grown persons dared not approach. <A singular 
power of will and magnetism, like that ascribed to the author. 
of “ Wuthering Heights,” seems to have possessed her. She rode 
with a graceful, fearless abandon, and loved nothing better than 
to float away by herself in a frail boat. She was the frequent 
companion of her father and grandfather in their walks, rides, ~ 
and hunting and fishing excursions; yet, with all these 
influences, she »was ever a gentle child, and remarkable for 
extreme sensibility and refinement.. She delighted in all sights 
and sounds of beauty ; and would sit for hours watching the 
sky in storm and sunshine, or listening to the wind among the 
trees—the plashing of a waterfall, or the cry of a whip-poor- 
will. This life familiarized her with all the voices of nature. 
A sound once heard she never forgot, but could, years after, 
imitate with surprising exactnesss. “I thus,” she says, 


’ SUSAN ARCHER TALLEY. 311 


“retain a rich store of remembrances, so vivid, that they 
seem ever in the present.” 

When she was eight years of age, her father removed to 
Richmond, and she then entered school. The change from 
unrestrained country life to the confinement of the city, and the 
irksome discipline of school, seemed a real affliction to the 
child. ‘Then, too, her fine sensibilities were, for the first time, 
brought into contact with natures of a coarser grain, and the 
rudeness, selfishness, and tyranny which she encountered, jarred 
upon her painfully. To her teachers, with whom she was ever 
a favorite, she became warmly attached, but she shrank from 
association with her schoolmates, and though of a lively dispo- 
sition, could never be induced to join in their sports. 

When in her eleventh year, she was released from this 
school thralldom, by an unexpected dispensation. It had been 
remarked that for some days she had appeared singularly 
absent and inattentive when spoken to; being at length 
reproved, she burst into tears, exclaiming, “I can’t hear you.” 
It was then discovered that her hearing was greatly impaired. 
She was placed under the care of the most eminent physicians, 
both at the North and the South; but their varied efforts 
resulted, as is too often the case, only in an aggravation.of the 
evil. She lost the power to distinguish conversation, though 
carried on in a loud key; a power which to this day she has not 
wholly recovered. She seems to have reconciled herself at once 
to this deprivation, and though given more than ever to thought- 
ful moods, and studious habits, was ever patient and cheerful. 
In conversing with her, the common finger-alphabet was resorted 
to, when necessary, but her extraordinary quickness of appre- 
hension generally rendered such aids needless. She would join 
in conversation with so much readiness and ease that strangers 
seldom suspected her infirmity. 

Her parents were at first greatly at loss as to the manner of 


342 WOMEN«OF THE SOUTH. 


conducting her education. Fortunately, she was advanced far 
beyond most children of her age, and now, released from the 
discipline of school, her natural love of study deepened ‘into a 
passion. It was soon found sufficient to throw suitable books 
in her way, and thus, unassisted, she completed a thorough 
scholastic course. She also acquired an extensive acquaintance 
with the literature of the day, and her correct taste, and critical 
discrimination, elicited the warmest encomiums from that prince 
of critics, Edgar A. Poe. 

At the age of twelve, Miss Talley developed an unsuspected 
faculty. A friend having presented her with a bouquet, she 
supplied herself with paper, pencils, and water-colors, shut her- 
self in her own room, and, in the course of a few hours, produced 
an almost perfect copy of the flowers. Masters were at once 
procured, who assured her that her talent was of a high order. 
Among these, the artist Robert Sully was very solicitous that 
she should devote herself to the cultivation of painting, and pre- 
dicted for her a brilliant success. Had her father, whose inter, 
est in, and devotion to, her culture never flagged, but lived to 
prosecute his generous designs, she might have accomplished. 
much in this line of art; but with his death, which occurred a 
few years after, her enthusiasm departed, the palette was laid 
aside and never after resumed, though her crayon drawings and 
miniatures are not surpassed, for beauty and finish, by those of 
any artist in the country. 

It was not until Miss Talley had entered her thirteenth year 
that her poetic faculty became apparent to her family, she hay- 
ing, through excessive modesty, carefully concealed all proofs 
of its development. Some specimens of her verse then falling 
under the eye of her father, he at once recognized in them the 
flow of true genius, and very wisely, with a few encouraging 
_ words, left her to the guidance of her own inspiration. In her 
sixteenth year, some of her poems appeared in the “ Southern 


SUSAN ARCHER.TALLEY. 313 


Literary Messenger,” to which she has ever since been an occa- 
sional contributor. 

In September, 1859, a collection of her poems was issued by 
Rudd & Carleton, of New York. This volume has secured for 
her a distinction of which she may well be proud. For 
rhythmic melody, for sustained imagination, for depth of feel- 
ing, and purity and elevation of sentiment, these poems are 
equalled by few, and surpassed by none of the productions of 
our poets. They are rich, also, in those qualities of mind and 
heart, which, apart from any literary prestige, win for Miss 
Talley the esteem and affection of all who are admitted within 
the choice circle of her friendship. 

' With this evidence of a genius which has, probably, not yet 
reached its maturity, we may confidently predict for this writer 
a distinguished rank in the world of letters. 


ENNERSLIE. 
PART FIRST. 


A hoary. tower, grim and high, 

All beneath a summer sky, 

Where the river glideth by, 
Sullenly—sullenly ; 

Across the wave in sluggish gloom, 

Heavy and black, the shadows loom— 

But the water-lilies brightly bloom 
Round about grim Ennerslie. 


All upon the bank below, 

Alders green and willows grow, 

That ever sway them to and fro, 
Mournfully—mournfully ; 


14 


WOMEN OF THE SOUTH. 


Never a boat doth pass that way, 

Never is heard a carol gay, 

Nor doth a weary pilgrim stray 
Down by haunted Ennerslie. 


2 


Yet in that tower is a room 
From whose fretted oaken dome 
Weird faces peer athwart the gloom, 
Mockingly—mockingly ; 
And there, beside the taper’s gleam, 
That maketh darkness darker seem, 
As one that waketh in a dream, 
Sits the lord of Ennerslie. 


Sitteth in his carvéd chair— 
From his forehead, pale and fair, 


Falleth down the raven hair, 


Heavily—heavily ; 
There is no color in his cheek, 
His lip is pale—he doth not speak— 
And rarely doth his footstep break 
The stillness of grim Ennerslie. 


From the casement, maniled o’er 

With ivy boughs and lichens hoar, 

The shadows creep along the floor, 
Stealthily—stealthily ; 

They glide along, a spectral train, 

And rest upon the blackened stain, 


_ Where of old a corpse was lain— 


Murdered at grim Ennerslie. 


In a niche within the wall, 

Where the shadows deepest fall, 

Like a coffin and a pall, } 
Gloomily—gloomily— 


SUSAN ARCHER TALLEY. 


Sits a ghostly owl, and grey, 

That there hath sat for many a day; 

And motionless, doth gaze alway 
Upon the lord of Ennerslie, 


Gazeth with its spectral eyes 

Ever in a weird surprise, 

Like some demon in disguise, 
Steadily—steadily ; 

And close beside that haunted nook 

Bendeth o’er an open book, 

With a wan and weary look, 
The pale young lord of Ennerslie, 


With a measured step, and slow, 

At times he paceth to and fro, 

Muttering in whispers low, 
Fitfully—fitfully, 

Or resting in his Gothic chair, 

Gazeth on the vacant air: 

Sure, some phantom sees he there, 
The haunted lord of Ennerslie. 


There is a picture on the wall, 

A statue on a pedestal— 

Standing where the sunbeams fall 
Goldenly—goldenly ; 

And alike, in form and face, 

The self-same beauty beareth trace: 

Imaged with a wondrous grace 
This fairy form at Ennerslie. 


Once, ’tis said; upon a time, 

In the flush of youthful prime, 

Wandering in a southern clime 
Restlessly—restlessly— 


315 


316 


WOMEN OF THE SOUTH. 


There passed him by a lady fair, 

With violet eyes and golden hair; 

It is her form that gleameth there— 
That fairy form at Ennerslie. 


He saw her ’mid a festal throng, 

He heard her sing a plaintive song,— 

He sings it yet those shades among, 
Mournfully—mournfally ; 

He saw her but a little space, 

Yet haunted by that angel-grace 

He wrought the beauteous form and face, 
When back returned to Ennerslie. 


When the sun is in the west, 

And the water-lilies rest, 

Rocking on the river’s breast 
Sleepily—sleepily ; 

When the woodlands, far remote, 

Startle to the night-bird’s note, 

*Down the river glides a boat , 
From the shades of Ennerslie, 


Glideth down by Ellesmaire, 
Where doth dwell a lady fair 
With violet eyes and golden hair, 
Lonesomely—lonesomely ; 
At the window’s height alway, 
She waves a scarf of colors gay, 
And in the distance, grim and grey, 
She seeth haunted Ennerslie. 
Sitting in her lonely room, 
Once, amid the twilight gloom, 
Bending o’er her fairy loom 
Wearily—wearily, 


SUSAN ARCHER TALLEY. S17 


She heareth music, sweet and low ; 
It is a song she well doth know, 
She used to sing it long ago— 

It cometh up from Ennerslie. 


Back she threw the casement wide; 

She saw the river onward glide, 

The lilies nodding on the tide, 
Sleepily—sleepily ; 

She saw a boat with snowy sail, 

Bearing onward with the gale— 

She saw the silken streamer pale— 
She saw the lord of Ennerslie. 


Carelessly he passed along 

The drooping willow shades among, 

Singing still that plaintive song 
Mournfully—mournfully ; 

Upon her hand she leant her head, 

She mused until the day was dead ; 

‘Oh, he was pale and sad,” she said, 
‘* And it is lone at Ennerslie.” 


PART SECOND. 


Fading are the summer leaves, 
The fields are rich with golden sheaves; 
Her silken scarf the lady weaves 
Wearily—wearily ; 
Her cheek hath lost its summer bloom, 
Her lovely eyes are full of gloom; 
She weaveth at her fairy loom, 
And looketh down to Ennerslie. 


She doth not smile, she doth not sigh ; 

Above her is the cold grey sky, 
Below, the river moaneth by 

| Drearily—drearily ; 


318 


WOMEN OF THE SOUTH. 


She sees the withered leaflets ride 

Like fairy barks adown the tide ; 

She saith, ‘“‘ Right joyously they glide, 
For they go down to Ennerslie!” 


And oft, when in the chamber wall 

The sunset hues in splendor fall, 

And mystic woodland echoes call 
Bodingly—bodingly ; 

She draws aside the curtain’s flow, 

And in the quiet stream below 

She watcheth, gliding onward slow, 
The snowy sail from Ennerslie. 


Beside her, on the hearth of stone, 

There sits a bent and withered crone, 

Who doth forever rock and moan 
Drowsily—drowsily ; 

She crooneth songs of mystic rhyme, 

And legends of the olden pe! ; 

She telleth tales of death and crime, 
She tells of haunted Ennerslie. 


She telleth how, as she hath heard, 
There dwelleth there a spirit weird 
In seeming of a ghostly bird, 

Ceaselessly—ceaselessly ; 
Because one hundred years agone 
A bloody murder there was done, 
A fearful curse doth rest upon 

The haughty race of Ennerslie. 


o 
“But tell me, nurse,” the lady said, 
“‘ What is this curse so dark and dread ?” 
The nurse she shook her aged head 
Solemnly—solemnly Rid 


~ 


SUSAN ARCHER TALLREY. 319 


‘He crazed, by whom the deed was done, 
And it doth run from sire to son ; 
Some time the curse shall light upon 

This strange young lord of Ennerslie ; 


‘* But should some youthful maiden dare 
For true love’s sake to enter there, 
The curse herself shall break and bear, 
Fearfully—fearfully.”’ 
And then she laughed, the beldame old ; 
‘Saint Mary! she were wondrous bold 
Who should for either love or gold 
Set free the curse from Ennerslie!”’ 


She telleth how that dotard crone, 

He loved a lady years agone, | 

The fairest that the earth hath known, 
Secretly—secretly ; 

But dared not woo her for his bride, 

Because the doom will sure betide 

The first that in her beauty’s pride 
Shall go to haunted Ennerslie. 


‘She listened, but she nothing said ; 

Like a lily drooped her head ; 

Her white hand wound the silken thread 
Listlessly—listlessly ; 

She rove the scarf from out the loom, 

She paced the floor, she crossed the room, 

And gleaming through the twilight gloom 
She saw the light at Ennerslie. 


The nurse, she naan in her chair; 

Then up arose that lady fair 

And crept adown the winding stair 
Stealthily—stealthily ; 


320 


WOMEN OF THE SOUTH. 


A boat was by the river side, 

The silken scarf as sail she tied, 

And lovely in her beauty’s pride 
Went gliding down to Ennerslie. 


Back upon the sighing gale 

Her tresses floated, like a veil; 

Her brow was cold, her cheek was pale, 
Fearfully—fearfully ; 

Was that a whisper in her ear ? 

Was that a shadow hovering near? 

Her very life-blood chilled with fear 
As down she went to Ennerslie. 


As upward her blue eyes she cast, 
A shadowy form there flitted past 
And settled onthe quivering mast 
Silently—silently. 
The lady gazed, yet spake no word: 
She knew it was the demon bird, 
The dark avenging spirit weird 
That dwelt at haunted Ennerslie. 


Fainter from the tower’s height 

Seems to her the beacon-light, 

Gleaming on her misty sight 
Fitfully—fitfully ; 

The river’s voice is faint and low, 

A chilly dew is on her brow ; 

She saith, ‘“‘ The curse is on me now 
But ’tis no more on Ennerslie ;” 


** And he will never know,”’ she sighed, 

‘When hither comes his Southern bride, 

That one for love of him hath died 
Secretly—secretly ; 


SUSAN ARCHER TALLEY. 


I knew that here I could not stay— 
My heart was breaking day by day ; 
And dying thus I take away 

The evil spell from Ennerslie.” 


Amid that tower’s solitude 

He sitteth in a musing mood, 

And gazeth down upon the flood 
Mournfully—mournfully ; 

When lo! he sees a tiny bark 

Gliding amid the shadows dark, 

And there a lady still and stark— 
A wondrous sight at Ennerslie! 


He hurried to the bank below, 

Upon the strand he drew the prow— 

He drew it in the moonlight’s glow 
Eagerly—eagerly ; 

He parted back the golden hair 


That veiled her cheek and forehead fair ; 


Why starts he at that beauty rare, 
The pale young lord of Ennerslie ? 


He called her name—she nothing said ; 


Upon his bosom drooped her head; 

The soul had from the body fled 
Utterly—utterly ! 

Slowly rolled the sluggish tide— 

The breeze amid the willows sighed ; 

“Oh, God! the curse is on me!” cried 
The stricken lord of Ennerslie. 


21 


321 


322 


WOMEN OF THE SOUTH. 


SUMMER NOON-DAY DREAM. 


The leaves are still, the breezes hushed, 
Or sing a drowsy number, 
And all throughout the silent day 
The golden hours slumber. 
The ripples idly lapse along 
Beneath the noon-tide’s gleaming ; 
Oh, sure the drowsy summer-time 
Was made alone for dreaming, 


Within my open window floats 
A slumbrous breath of roses, 

And in the softly-shaded room, 
Silence itself reposes: 

And liquid lustres on the wall 
Cool, rippling waves resemble, 

As to and fro, with motion slow, 
The leafy shadows tremble. 


A sense of silence and repose— 
Of slow and tranquil motion; 

A murmur as of sleeping winds 
Upon a sleeping ocean, 

And softly o’er my senses steais 
A luxury Elysian, 

And all delights of drowsy thought 
Are mingled in my vision. 


Oh, chiding voices, wake me not, 
Nor turn my rhyme to reason—- 
For life is mingled work and play, 
And each may have its season. 
The winter-time for study’s toil, 
The spring for pleasure’s scheming, 
Autumn for the poet’s thought, 
And summer-time for dreaming! 


ate 


SUSAN ARCHER TALLEY. 


THE SIRENS. 


Hither, oh, hither! 
Wanderer on the dreary ocean, 
Weary of its wild commotion, 
Hither flee, 
Here are rest and peace for thee! 


Ere the day grow dim and the night grow dark, 


Oh, hither speed your lonely bark, 

Hither, hither! 
No storms disturb our peaceful isle, 

No tempests wreck our happy shore; 
All in calm repose doth smile, 

All is rest forevermore, 

Evermore! 

Hark! the waves on the echoing shore 
Murmur as they softly pour, 

‘‘ Evermore, evermore! 

Peace and rest forevermore!” x 


Hither, hither! 

Wherefore toil on the stormy main? 
Wherefore trust to the treacherous sea? 

Spare your labor, spare your pain, 

Come and rest ye, e’en as we! 
All things rest, and why not ye? 

All from life hath gladness won, 

Why should care be thine alone? 

Lo! see ye not how the playful waves 
Come laughing up from the restless sea, 
Chasing each in their careless glee, 

Merrily, merrily ! 


And the haleyons swing with their snowy breasts, 


Up and down on the billows’ crests, 
That come and go, 
To and fro, 


323 


324 WOMEN OF THE SOUTH. 


Softly, dreamily, and slow, 
Murmuring in quiet measure 
Lowly tones of drowsy pleasure ; 
Till all happy things that glide 
Underneath the emerald tide 
Linger, and with wistful eye 
Glance them upward silently, 

Silently ; 
Swaying as they idly lie 
To and fro, 
Soft and slow, 
To the sea’s wild melody. 


Hither, hither! 

Would ye revel in beauty’s light, 

Come where beauty forever smiles; 
Would ye feast upon life’s delight, 

Haste, oh, haste to our happy isles, 
Here, amid wealth of fragrant flowers, 

Deep in the cooling shade we lie, 
Here we rest, while the charmed hours 

Float in their languid beauty: by ; 

Over us float as we dreaming lie, 

Lazily, lazily! 

And we upward reach where the clusters swell 

Rich and rare in the ripening sun, 

And we daintily pluck them, one by one, 
And press their juice in a pearly shell ; 

And our love-lit eyes more brightly shine 

As we bathe our lips in the ruby wine; 
While over our shoulders white and bare, 
O’er blushing cheek and forehead fair, 
Falleth a wealth of golden hair, 

Rippling down, softly down, 

From under the perfumed myrtle crown: 
And the Spirit of Life, as the wine we sip, 
Flushes in heart, and cheek, and lip, 


SUSAN ARCHER TALLEY. 325 


Warming and thrilling us through and through, 
And the love and the beauty are all for you, 
All for you! 


Hither, hither! 
Spread your sails to the wooing winds, 
Speed your bark to our happy shore, 
Where love and joy in a circle binds 
The charmed hours forevermore, 
Evermore ! 
Hark! the waves on the echoing shore 
Murmur as they softly pour, 
“Evermore, evermore ! 
Love and joy forevermore !” 


BY THE WINDOW. 


By the window, when the sunset 
Crimsons all the glowing west, 
Sit I with my favorite poet 
In his golden fancies blest ; 
And a flood of rarest music 
Thrills through all my raptured breast. 
By the window, in the twilight, 
With the book upon my knee, 
Yield I to a quiet musing, 
To a blissful reverie, 
Till, from out the purple heavens 
Blessings seem to fall on me. 


By the window, when the moonlight 
Falls through jasmin boughs, I wait— 
Watching with unquiet pleasure, 
Half subdued and half elate, 
For the form that soon shall enter 
At the bowered garden gate. 


326 


WOMEN OF THE SOUTH. 


By the window, in the starlight, 
Many a happy hour we spend ; 

And as moonlight with the starlight, 
So our thoughts together blend ; 

And we thank God for the loving 
That His greater love doth send. 


REST. 


Lay him gently to his rest, 
Fold his pale hands on his breast ; 
From his brow— 
Oh, how cold and marble fair !— 
Softly part the tangled hair; 
Look upon him now! 
As aweary child he lies, 
With the quiet, dreamless eyes 
O’er which the lashes darkly sweep— 
And on his lip the quiet smile, 
The soul’s adieu to earthly strife, 
And on his face the deep repose 
We never saw in life. 
Peaceful be his rest and deep: 
Let him sleep ! 


No tears for him—he needs them not. 
Along life’s drear and toilsome road 
Firmly his manly footsteps trode, 

Striving to bear his weary lot. 

With such a pride upon his brow, 

With such a pain within his heart— 

The firmness of the manly will 

Veiling the secret smart. 

Oh, it is well the strife is o’er, 

That thus so peacefully he lies, 

Unheeding now the bitter words, 


The cold, unpitying eyes, 


SUSAN ARCHER TALLEY, 


Fold his mantle o’er his breast, 
Peaceful be his sleep, and blest; 
Let him rest! 


No sigh to breathe above his bier, 

No tear to stain the marble brow, 
Only with tender pitying love, | 
Only with faith that looks above, 

We gaze upon him now ; 

No thought of toil and suffering past— 
But joy to think the task is done, 
The heavy cross at last laid down, 
The crown of glory won. 
Oh, bear him gently to his rest, 
Oh, gently pile the flowery sod, 
And leave his body to the dust, 
His spirit with his God! 


327 


AUGUSTA J: EVANS. 


Ir is not many months since the reading world was electri- 
fied by the advent of a book bearing the modest name of 
“ Beulah.” There was nothing wonderful in the appearance of 
a new novel, written by a woman; this was a ruling feature of 
the day. But it was evident that “ Beulah” did not run in the 
usual groove. Some unfamiliar domain of fancy or theory had 
been invaded ; a vein had been struck which gave out the ring 
of golden ore, and all were on the gui vive. The scholastic tone 
of the book, its analytic subtleties, range and research, indicated 
an author of advanced years, a rigid student, and a sturdy indi- 
vidualism. The press teemed with generous notices ; the cavillers 
were a harmless minority. One of the latter at last discovered — 
that much of the book was stolen from Dickens’ “ Bleak House ;” 
but as the author had never read ‘“ Bleak House ” and was, in 
her own words, “as ignorant of its style and plot as of the 
mysteries of the Brahmins, locked up in Sanscrit ” (mysteries 
which, we doubt not, have tantalized her investigating mind 
quite as much as Blue Beard’s secret ever haunted the brain of 
Fatima), the sorry shot fell without effect. To whatever criti- 
cism the book might be open, it certainly could not well be 
charged with plagiarism. Its.dominant spirit was a dogged 
independence of thought and action. The downright, upright, 
outright author of “ Beulah” could scarcely be accused of 
filching. 


As a climacteric, then came the intelligence that the writer 
823 













































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































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AUGUSTA J. EVANS. 329 


was not a fossil specimen of the genus woman, or philosopher, 
but a girl of twenty-three years, whose knowledge of life 
extended little beyond her books, her home, a few choice 
friends, and her own intuitions. The book, ‘ Beulah,” ran 
rapidly through one edition after another, and has, at this 
writing, reached a circulation of twenty-one thousand copies. 

: Augusta J. Evans was born near Columbus, Georgia. She 
is the eldest of eight children, and a descendant, on the maternal 
side, from the Howards, one of the most honorable families of 
the State. When she was a mere child, her father removed 
with his family to Texas. The succeeding year was divided 
between Galveston and Houston, and, early in 1847, they again 
removed to the then frontier town of San Antonio. 

Miss Evans has a vivid remembrance of this phase of her 
life. The Mexican war was then at its height, and San Antonio 
was a place of rendezvous for the United States troops, sent to 
reinforce Gen. Taylor. Between the lawlessness of the soldiery, 
and the incongruous nature of the population, society was in a 
thoroughly disorganized state. There were no schools worth 
the name, and her mother, who is said to be a woman of great 
intelligence and culture, as well as rare moral excellence, took 
upon herself the office of educator. 

The childhood of our author was somewhat isolated and 
lonely. Her brothers were too young to share even in her 
girlish sports, and only to her mother and her books could she 
look for companionship. Doubtless to this fact may be traced, 
in a great measure, the precocious habits of thought and. 
research which distinguish her writings. 

It was in San Antonio that the idea of authorship first 
dawned upon her. In a characteristic letter, just received, she 
Says : 

“Y remember rambling about the crumbling walls of the 
Alamo, recalling all its bloody horrors; and as I climbed the 


330 WOMEN OF THE SOUTH. 


moldering, melancholy pile, to watch the last rays of the | 


setting sun gild the hill-tops, creep down the sides, and slowly 
sink into the blue waves of the San Antonio River: as I looked 
over the quietly beautiful valley, with its once noble Alameda 
of stately cottonwoods, my heart throbbed, and I wondered if I 
should be able, some day, to write about it for those who had 
never looked upon a scene so fair. I,seem, even now, to be 
winding once more through that lovely valley, holding my 
mother’s hand tightly, as she repeated beautiful descriptions 
from Thomson’s ‘Seasons’ and Cowper’s ‘Task ;’ again I see 
the white flock slowly descending the hills, and bleating as 
they wound home to my father’s fold.” 

After a two years’ residence at San Antonio, the family 
removed to Alabama, and setted in Mobile, where they now 
reside. Here our author was placed for a brief time at school, 
but her health beginning to fail, her mother became again her 
companion and instructor. 


Early in her seventeenth year, she wrote “Inez, a Tale of 


the Alamo ;” in which she designed to show the abuses of papacy, 
as they were revealed to her in San Antonio, and to embody 


the principal features of the Texan War of Independence. No 


one but her mother knew of her ambitious project, and one 
Christmas morning she placed the MS. in the hands of her 
father as a Christmas: surprise. This work was brought out 
anonymously, in 1855. It is marked by the same features which 
give to her later work its stern individuality, though it is less 
happy in style and artistic effect. We do not expect a mere 
school-girl to leap at once into the finished and ornate manner 
of the practised writer. ‘ Inez” was noticed very favorably by 
the press, with the exception of the Catholic journals, which, as 
a matter of course, took umbrage at her strictures upon papacy, 
and charged at the young heretic with might and main. 

With this experience in the way of “bitter-sweet,” our 








* = 


AUGUSTA J. EVANS. SOM 


author continued her studies, and, for three years, wrote lit- 
tle, except book notices for the Mobile papers; very wisely 
reserving forces for the work which was to give her name to 
fame. | , 
In the autumn of 1859, “ Beulah” was published,* with the 
name of the author, by Messrs. Derby & Jackson, and from that 
time to the present, has been constantly in the eye of the public. 
‘Skepticism is the Upas tree of the age. Its poisonous roots 
underlie some of our fairest gardens of mental and spiritual 
culture. Its baneful breath is everywhere. We have lost the 
sweet trusting faith of our fathers. We glory in our profundity, 
in our logical acumen, in the audacity of our unbelief. Nothing 
is too high, nothing too deep for our comprehension. Whatever 
looms beyond the magnificent reach of our thought, or shuts 
out from the grand sweep of our horizon, is a delusion. We 
will have none of it. At this pernicious growth among us, 
this book is aimed. The author of “ Beulah” is terribly in 
earnest. She herself has evidently traversed the whole waste 
of rationalism, over which we slowly and painfully follow her 
heroine. She takes “Beulah” by the hand and goes over the 
ground with merciless fidelity ; not a doubt is left unturned. 
Every dragon of speculation which once assailed her is 
unearthed, and over again is fought the strong battle. We 
wrestle ourselves, and grow old, and wasted, and haggard, in the 
protracted contest. This intensely vitalized action of the book 
is its grand feature and fulcrum; effecting more than whole 
folios of mere argument. 

But Beulah Benton and Guy Hartwell are much more 
familiar with Carlyle’s “ Herr Teufelsdrockh” than with Ovid’s 
“ Art of Love.” They make a grim pair of lovers enough, and 
throw into spasms of impatience all who are wading through 
“ontology,” “psychology,” “eclecticism,” etc., merely for 
some green isle of “ billing and cooing ;” but they belong to 


- 


832 WOMEN OF THE SOUTH. 


an existing type, and are in keeping with the austere, determi- 
nate character of the book. | 

“Beulah ” is perhaps, more than anything else, a bounteous 
promise. If at twenty-three the writer can bring so much, what 
may we not expect of her riper years ? 

Notwithstanding the celebrity which she has suddenly 
achieved, Miss Evans is still much of a recluse. The habits 
formed in earlier life have become a part of her nature, and she 
finds in her home, her books, music, and flowers, her truest 
happiness. In her mother, especially, do her purest affections 
seem to centre. ‘She is, in every sense, my Alma Mater,” she 
writes, “the one to whom I owe everything, and whom I rever- 
ence more than all else on earth.” 

A fondness for metaphysical subtleties, and a constant incli- 
nation to turn to philosophic studies, would seem to be normal 
characteristics of our author’s mind, and not altogether the 
result of circumstance and culture. From her childhood she 
has been much given to speculation and analysis, subjecting 
every theory or system, which came under her notice, to the 
most rigid scrutiny, and then taking positive ground with regard 
toit. Thus, in reading “Inez,” one would suppose that she had 
devoted her short life to a study of the arts, and perversions of 
papacy ; while “ Beulah” would seem to be the result of at 
least a half century of metaphysical and philosophic research. 

In her cottage home, a little distance from Mobile, within 
view of the “piney woods,” whose soughing music sets itself to 
a sweet monotone of her nature, Miss Evans moves quietly on 
her way, fillmg the days with steady application, and those 
unobtrusive, kindly acts, which, more than any other, do beau- 
tify and ennoble character. Some abstruse subject is doubtless, 
even now, simmering in her mental crucible, soon to be trans- 
muted by a subtle alchemy into crystals of truth. 


AUGUSTA J. EVANS. 333 


LILLY’S DEATH. 


Several tedious weeks had rolled away, since Eugene Graham left bis 
sunny southern home, to seek learning in the venerable universities of the 
old world. Blue-eyed May, the carnival month of the year, had clothed the 
earth with verdure, and enamelled it with flowers of every hue, scattering 
her treasures before the rushing car of summer. During the winter, scarlet 
fever had hovered threateningly over the city, but as the spring advanced, 
hopes were entertained that all danger had passed. Consequently, when it 
was announced that the disease had made its appearance in a very malignant 
form, in the house adjoining Mrs. Martin’s, she determined to send her chil- 
dren out of town. A relative, living at some distance up the river, happened 
to be visiting her at the time, and as she intended returning home the fol- 
lowing day, kindly offered to take charge of the children, until all traces of 
the disease had vanished. To this plan, Beulah made no resistance, though 
the memory of her little sister haunted her hourly. What could she do{ 
Make one last attempt to see her, and if again refused, then it mattered not 
whither she went. When the preparations for their journey had been com- 
pleted, and Johnny slept soundly in his crib, Beulah put on her old straw 
bonnet, and set out for Mr. Grayson’s residence. The sun was low in the 
sky, and the evening breeze rippling the waters of the bay, stirred the luxu- 
riant foliage of the ancient china-trees that bordered the pavements. The 
orphan’s heart was heavy with undefined dread; such a dread as had 


oppressed her the day of her separation from her sister. 
*¢ Coming events cast their shadows before,” 


And she was conscious that the sun-set glow could not dispel the spectral 
gloom which enveloped her. She walked on, with her head bowed, like one 
stooping from an impending blow, and when at last the crouching lions con- 
fronted her, she felt as if her heart had suddenly frozen. There stood the 
doctor’s buggy. She sprang up the steps, and stretched out her hand for the 
bolt of the door. Long streamers of crape floated through her fingers. She 
stood still a moment, then threw open the door, and rushed in. The hall 
floor was covered to muffle the tread; not a sound reached her, save the 
stirring of the china-trees outside. Her hand was on the balustrade to 


Do4 | WOMEN OF THE SOUTH. 


ascend the steps, but her eyes fell upon a piece of crape fastened to the 
parlor door, and pushing it ajar she looked in. The furniture was draped ; 
even the mirrors, and pictures, and on a small oblong table in the centre of 
the room, lay a shrouded form. An overpowering perfume of crushed 
flowers filled the air, and Beulah stood on the threshold, with her hands 
extended, and her eyes fixed upon the table. There were two children ; 
Lilly might yet live, and an unvoiced prayer went up to God, that the dead 
might be Claudia. Then like scathing lightning came the recollection of her 
curse; ‘‘May God answer their prayers, as they answered mine.” With 
rigid limbs she tottered to the table, and laid her hands on the velvet pall ; 
with closed eyes she drew it down, then held her breath and looked. There 
lay her idol, in the marble arms of death. Ah! how matchlessly beautiful, 
wrapped in her last sleep! The bright golden curls glittered around the 
snowy brow, and floated like wandering sunlight over the arms and shoul- 
ders. The tiny waxen fingers clasped each other as in life, and the delicately 
chiselled lips were just parted, as though the sleeper whispered. Beulah’s 
gaze dwelt upon this mocking loveliness, then the arms were thrown wildly 
up, and with a long, wailing cry, her head sank heavily on the velvet 
cushion, beside the cold face of her dead darling. How long it rested there, 
she never knew. LHarth seemed to pass away; darkness closed over her, and 
for a time she had no pain, no sorrow; she and Lilly were together. All 
was black, and she had no feeling. Then she was lifted, and the motion 
aroused her torpid faculties; she moaned and opened her eyes. Dr. Hart- 
well was placing her on a sofa, and Mrs. Grayson stood by the table with a 
handkerchief over her eyes. With returning consciousness came a raving 
despair; Beulah sprang from the strong arm that strove to detain her, and 
laying one clinched hand on the folded fingers of the dead, raised the other 
fiercely toward Mrs. Grayson, and exclaimed almost frantically : 

‘You have murdered her! I knew it would be so, when you-took my 
darling from my arms, and refused my prayer! « Aye! my prayer! I knelt 
and prayed you in the name of God, to let me see her once more; to let me 
hold her to my heart, and kiss her lips, and her forehead, and little slender 
hands. You scorned a poor gifl’s prayer ; you taunted me with my poverty, 
and locked me from my darling, my Lilly! my all! Oh, woman! you drove 
me wild, and I cursed you and your husband. Ha! has your wealth and 
splendor saved her? God have mercy upon me; I feel as if I could curse 
you eternally. Could you not have sent for me before she died? Oh, if I 
could only have taken her in my arms, and seen her soft angel eyes looking 


* 


AUGUSTA J. EVANS. 335 


up to me, and felt her little arms around my neck, and heard her say ‘sister’ 
for the last time! Would it have taken a dime from your purse, or made 
you less fashionable, to have sent for me before she died? ‘Such measure 
as ye mete, shall be meted to you again.’ May you live to have your heart 
trampled and crushed, even as you have trampled mine!” 

Her arm sank to her side, and once more the blazing eyes were fastened 
on the young sleeper; while Mrs. Grayson, cowering like a frightened child, 
left the room. Beulah fell on her knees, and crossing her arms on the table, 
bowed her head ; now and then, broken, wailing tones passed the white lips, 
Dr. Hartwell stood in a recess of the window, with folded arms and tightly 
compressed mouth, watching the young mourner. Once he moved toward 
her, then drew back, and a derisive smile distorted his features, as though 
he scorned himself for the momentary weakness. He turned suddenly away, 
and reached the door, but paused to look back. The old straw bonnet, with 
its faded pink ribbon, had fallen off, and heavy folds of black hair veiled the 
bowed face. He noted the slight, quivering form, and the thin hands, and a 
look of remorseful agony swept over his countenance. A deadly pallor 
settled on cheek and brow, as, with an expression of iron resolve, he 
retraced his steps, and putting his hand on the orphan’s shoulder, said 
gently : 

‘* Beulah, this is no place for you. Come with me, child.” 

She shrank from his touch, and put up one hand, waving him off. 

“Your sister died with the scarlet fever, and Claudia is now very ill with 
it. If you stay here, you will certainly take it yourself.” 

“T hope I shall take it.” 

He laid his fingers on the pale high brow, and le Sy drawing back the 
thick hair, said earnestly : 

“Beulah, come home with me. Be my child: my daughter.” 

Again her hand was raised to put him aside. 

‘““No: you would hate me for my ugliness. Let me hide it in the grave 
with Lilly. They cannot separate us there.” 

He lifted her head; and, looking down into the haggard face, answered 
kindly : ' 

“T promise you I will not think you ugly. I will make you happy. 
Come to me, child.” 

She shook her head, with a moan. Passing his arm around her, he 
raised her from the carpet, and leaned her head against him. 

‘Poor little sufferer! they have made you drink, prematurely, earth’s 


e 


336 WOMEN OF THE SOUTH. 


bitter draughts. They have disenchanted your childhood of its fairy-like 
future. Beulah, you are ill now. Do not struggleso. You must come with 
me, my child.” 

He took her in his strong arms, and bore her out of the house of death. 
His buggy stood at the door, and, seating himself in it, he directed the boy 
who accompanied him to ‘‘drive home.” Beulah offered no resistance; she 
hid her face in her hands, and sat quite still, scarcely conscious of what 
passed. She knew that a firm arm held her securely, and, save her wretched- 
ness, knew nothing else. Soon she was lifted out of the buggy, carried up 
a flight of steps, and then a flood of light passed through the fingers, upon 
her closed eyelids. Dr. Hartwell placed his charge on a sofa, and rang the 
bell. The summons was promptly answered by a negro woman of middle 
age. She stood at the door awaiting the order, but his eyes were bent on 
the floor, and his brows knitted. 

** Master, did you ring ?” 

“Yes, tell my sister to come to me.’ 

He took a turn across across the floor, and a abe by the open window. 
As the night air rustled the brown locks on his temples, he sighed deeply. 
The door opened, and a tall, slender woman, of perhaps thirty-five years, 
entered the room. She was pale and handsome, with a profusion of short 
chestnut curls about her face. With her hand resting on the door, she said 
in a calm, clear tone: : 

“Well, Guy ?” 

He started, and turning from the window, approached her. 

“May, I want a room arranged for this child as soon as possible. Will 
you see that a hot foot-bath is provided? When it is ready, send Harriet 
for her.” 

His sister’s lips curled as she looked searchingly at the figure on the sofa, 
and said, coldly : 

“What freak now, Guy ?” 

For a moment their eyes met steadily, and he smiled grimly. 

‘“‘T intend to adopt that poor orphan; that is all!” 

‘‘ Where did you pick her up, at the hospital?” said she sneeringly. 

“No, she has been hired as a nurse, at a boarding-house.” 

He folded his arms, and again they looked at each other. 

‘*T thought you had had quite enough of protégés.” 

- She nervously clasped and unclasped her jet bracelet. 
“Take care, May Chilton! Mark me. Lift the pall from the past once 


AUGUSTA J. EVANS: ail 


more, and you and Pauline must find another home, another protector. 
Now, will you see that a room is prepared as I directed.” 

He was very pale, and his eyes burned fiercely, yet his tone was calm 
and subdued. Mrs. Chilton bit her lips, and withdrew. Dr. Hartwell 
walked up and down the room for awhile, now and then looking sadly at the 
young stranger. She sat just as he had placed her, with her hands over her 
face. Kindly he bent down, and whispered : 

“* Will you trust me, Beulah ?” 

She made no answer, but he saw her brow wrinkle, and knew that she 
shuddered. The servant came in to say that the room had been arranged, as 
he had directed. However surprised she might have been at this sudden 
advent of the simply clad orphan in her master’s study, there was not the 
faintest indication of it in her impenetrable countenance. Not even the 
raising of an eyebrow. 

‘Harriet, see that her feet are well bathed; and, when she is in bed, 
come for some medicine.” 

Then, drawing the hands from her eyes, he said to Beulah: 

‘““Go with her, my child. I am glad I have you safe under my own roof, 
where no more cruel injustice can assail you.” 

He pressed her hand kindly, and, rising mechanically, Beulah accom- 
panied Harriet, who considerately supported the drooping form. The room 
to which she was conducted was richly furnished, and lighted by an elegant 
colored lamp, suspended from the ceiling. Mrs. Chilton stood near an arm- 
chair, looking moody and abstracted. Harriet carefully undressed the poor 
mourner, and wrapping ashawl about her, placed her in the chair, and bathed 
her feet. Mrs. Chilton watched her with ill-concealed impatience. When 
the little dripping féet were dried, Harriet lifted her, as if she had been an 
infant, and placed her in bed, then brought the medicine from the study, and 
administered a spoonful of the mixture. Placing her finger on the girl’s 
wrist, she counted the rapid pulse, and turning unconcernedly toward Mrs. 
Chilton, said: 

‘“ Miss May, master says you need not trouble about the medicine. J am 
to sleep in the room and take care of this little girl.” 

‘“Very well. See that she is properly attended to, as my brother directed. 
My head aches miserably, or I should remain myself.” 

She glanced at the bed, and left the room. Harriet leaned over the pillow 
and examined the orphan’s countenance. The eyes were closed, but scalding 

22 


338 WOMEN OF THE SOUTH. 


tears rolled swiftly over the cheeks, and the hands were clasped over the brow, - 
as if to still its throbbings. Harriet’s face softened, and she said kindly : 

“Poor thing! what ails you? What makes you cry so?” 

Beulah pressed her head closer to the pillow, and murmured : 

‘“‘T am so miserable! I want to die, and God will not take me.” 

‘“‘ Don't say that, till you see whether you've got the scarlet fever. Ifyou 
have, you are likely to be taken pretty soon, I can tell you; and if you 
haven’t, why, it’s all for the best. It is a bad plan to fly in the Almighty’s 
face, that way, and tell him what he shall do, and what he shan’t.” 

This philosophic response fell unheeded on poor Beulah’s ears, and Har- 
riet was about to inquire more minutely into the cause of her grief, but she 
perceived her master standing beside her, and immediately moved away 
from the bed. Drawing out his watch, he counted the pulse several times. 
The result seemed to trouble him, and he stood for some minutes watching 
the motionless form. 

‘Harriet, bring me a glass of ice-water.” 

Laying his cool hand on the hot forehead of the suffering girl, he said, 
tenderly : 

‘* My child, try not to cry any more to-night. It is very bitter, I know; 
but remember, that though Lilly has been taken from you, from this day 
you have a friend, a home, a guardian.” 

Harriet proffered the glass of water. He took it, raised the head, and 
put the sparkling draught to Beulah’s parched lips. Without unclosing her 
eyes, she drank the last crystal drop, and laying the head back on the pillow, 
he drew an arm-chair before the window at the further end of the room, and 
seated himself. 


BEULAH BENTON AND GUY HARTWELL AS LOVERS. 


The door stood open, and with bonnet and shawl in her hand, she entered, 
little prepared to meet her guardian, for she had absented herself, with the 
hope of avoiding him. He was sitting by a table, preparing some medicine, 
and looked up involuntarily as she came in. His eyes lightened instantly, 
but he merely said: 
~  & Good evening, Beulah.” | 

The tone was less icy than on previous occasions, and crossing the room 
at once, she stood beside him, and held out her hand. 

‘* How are you, sir?” 


. 


AUGUSTA J. EVANS. 339 


He did not take the hand, but looked at her keenly, and said: 

‘You are an admirable nurse, to go off and leave your sick friend.” 

Beulah threw down her bonnet and shawl, and retreating to the hearth, 
began to warm her fingers, as she replied, with indifference : 

“TI have just left another of your patients. Cornelia Graham has been 
worse than usual for a day or two. Clara, I will put away my out-door 
wrappings, and be with you presently.” She retired to her own room, and 
leaning against the window, where the rain was now pattering drearily, she 
murmured faintly : 

‘““ Will he always treat me so? Have I lost my friend forever? Once he 
was so different; so kind, even in his sternness!” A tear hung upon her 
lash, and fell on her hand; she brushed it hastily away, and stood thinking 
over this alienation, so painful and unnatural, when she heard her guardian 
close Clara’s door, and walk across the hall, to the head of the stairs. She 
waited awhile, until she thought he had reached his buggy, and slowly pro- 
ceeded to Clara’s room. Her eyes were fixed on the floor, and her hand was 
already on the bolt of the door, when a deep voice startled her. 

“‘ Beulah !” f 

She looked up at him proudly. Resentment had usurped the place of 
grief. But she could not bear the earnest eyes, that looked into hers with 
such misty splendor; and provoked at her own emotion, she asked, coldly : 

‘What do you want, sir?” 

He did not answer at once, but stood observing her closely. She felt the 
hot blood rush into her unusually cold, pale face, and, despite her efforts to 
seem. perfectly indifferent, her eyelids and lips would tremble. His hand 
rested lightly on her shoulder, and he spoke very gently : 

“Child, have you been ill? You look wretchedly. What ails, you, 
Beulah !” 

‘* Nothing, sir.” 

“That will not answer. Tell me, child, tell me!” 

““T tell you I am as well as usual,” cried she, impatiently, yet her voice 


faltered. She was struggling desperately with her own heart. The return 


of his old manner, the winning tones of his voice, affected her more than 
she was willing he should see. 

“Beulah, you used to be truthful and candid.” 

“T am so still,” she returned, stoutly, though tears began to gather in 
her eyes. 

“‘No, child, already the world has changed you.” 


340 WOMEN OF THE SOUTH. 


A shadow fell over his face, and the sad eyes were like clouded stars. 

‘** You know better, sir! Iam just what I always was! It is you who 
are so changed! Once you were my friend; my guardian! Once you 
were kind, and guided me; but now you are stern, and bitter, and 
tyrannical !””’ 

She spoke passionately, and tears, which she bravely tried to force back, 
rolled swiftly down her cheeks. His light touch on her shoulder tightened, 
until it seemed a hand of steel, and with an expression which she never 
forgot, even in after years, he answered : 

““Tyrannical! Not to you, child!” 

‘Yes, sir, tyrannical! cruelly tyrannical! Because I dared to think and 
act for myself, you have cast me off—utterly! You try to see how cold and 
distant you can be; and show me that you don’t care whether I live or die, 
so long as I chose to be independent of you. I did not believe that you 
could ever be so ungenerous !”’ 

She looked up at him with swimming eyes. ‘He smiled down into her 
tearful face, and asked : 

“Why did you defy my, child?” 

“Tf did not, sir, until you treated me worse than the servants. Worse 
than you did Charon even.” 

* How 2?” 

“How, indeed! You left me in your own house without one word of 
good bye, when you expected to be absent an indefinite time. Did you sup- 
pose, that I would remain there an hour after such treatment?” 

He smiled again, and said in the low musical tone, which she had always 
found so difficult to resist : 

“Come back, my child. Come back to me.” 

‘“ Never, sir! Never!” answered she, resolutely. 

A stony hue settled on his face; the lips seemed instantly frozen, and 
removing his -hand from her shoulder, he said, as if talking to a perfect 
stranger : . 

‘See that Clara Sanders needs nothing; she is far from being well.” 

He left her, but her heart conquered for an instant, and she sprang down 
two steps, and caught his hand. Pressing her face against his arm, she 
exclaimed, brokenly : ‘ 

‘Oh, sir! do not cast me off entirely! My friend, my guardian; indeed, 
I have not deserved this! 

He laid his hand on her bowed head, and said calmly : 


AUGUSTA J. EVANS. 34] 


‘‘ Fierce, proud spirit! Ah! it will take long years of trial and suffering 
to tame you. Go, Beulah! You have cast yourself off. It was no wish, no 
work of mine.” 

He lifted her head from his arm, gently unclasped her fingers, and walked 
away. 


FIRST STEP INTO THE DARK. 


An hour after, Clara slept soundly, and Beulah sat in her own room bend- 
ing over a book. Midnight study had long since become a habitual thing ; 
nay, two and three o’clock, frequently found her beside the waning lamp. 
Was it any marvel that, as Dr. Hartwell expressed it, ‘‘ she looked wretch- 
edly?” From her earliest childhood, she had been possessed by an active 
spirit of inquiry, which constantly impelled her to investigate, and as far as 
possible to explain the mysteries which surrounded her on every side. 
With her growth, grew this haunting spirit, which asked continually, ‘‘ What 
am I? Whence did I come? And whither amI bound? What is life? 
What is death? AmI my own mistress, or am I but a tool in the hands of 
my Maker? What constitutes the difference between my mind, and my 
body? Is there any difference? If spirit must needs have body to incase it, 
and body must have a spirit to animate it, may they not be identical? With 
these primeval foundation questions, began her speculative career. In the 
solitude of her own soul, she struggled bravely and earnestly to answer those 
‘‘dread questions, which, like swords of flaming fire, tokens of imprison- 
ment, encompass man on earth.’’ Of course, mystery triumphed. Panting 
for the truth, she pored over her Bible, supposing that here, at least, all 
clouds would melt away; but here, too, some inexplicable passages confronted 
her. Physically, morally and mentally, she found the world warring. To recon- 
cile these antagonisms with the conditions and requirements of Holy Writ, 
she now most faithfully set to work. Ah, proudly-aspiring soul! How many 
earnest thinkers had essayed the same mighty task, and died under the into- 
lerable burden? Unluckily for her there was no one to direct or assist her. 
she scrupulously endeavored to conceal her doubts and questions from her 
guardian. Poor child! she fancied she concealed them so effectually from 
his knowledge; while he silently noted the march of skepticism in her nature. 
There were dim, puzzling passages of Scripture, which she studied on her 
knees; now trying to comprehend them, and now beseeching the Source of 
all knowledge to enlighten her. But, as has happened to numberless 


342 WOMEN OF THE SOUTH. 


others, there was seemingly no assistance given. The clouds grew denser and 
darker, and like the ‘cry of strong swimmers in their agony,” her prayers 
had gone up to the Throne of Grace. Sometimes she was tempted to go to 
the minister of the church, where she sat Sunday after Sunday, and beg him 
to explain the mysteries to her. But the pompous austerity of his manners 
repelled her whenever she thought of broaching the subject; and gradually 
she saw that she must work out her own problems. Thus, from week to wéek 
and month to month, she toiled on, with a slowly dying faith, constantly 
clambering over obstacles which seemed to stand between her trust and 
revelation. It was no longer study for the sake of erudition; these riddles 
involved all that she prized in Time and Eternity, and she grasped books of 
every description with the eagerness of a famishing nature. What dire 
chance threw into her handssuch works as Emerson’s, Carlyle’s and Goethe’s? 
Like the waves of the clear, sunny sea, they only. increased her thirst to 
madness. Her burning lips were ever at these fountains; and in her reck- 
less eagerness, she plunged into the gulf of German speculation. Here she 
believed that she had indeed found the “true process,” and with renewed 
zest, continued the work of questioning. At this stage of the conflict, the 
pestilential scourge was laid upon the city, and she paused from her meta- 
physical toil to close glazed eyes and shroud soulless clay. In the awful hush 
of these hours of watching, she looked calmly for some solution, and longed 
for the unquestioning faith of early years. But these influences passed with- 
out aiding her in the least, and with rekindled ardor she went back to her 
false prophets. In addition, ethnology beckoned her on to conclusions 
apparently antagonistic to the revealed system, and the stony face of geology 
seemed radiant with characters of light, which she might decipher and find 
some security in. From Dr. Asbury’s extensive collection, she snatched 
treatise after treatise. The sages of geology talked of the pre-Adamic eras, 
and of man’s ending the slowly forged chain, of which the radiata form the 
lowest link; and then she was told that in those pre-Adamic ages, Paleeon-— 
tologists find no trace whatever of that golden time, when the vast animal 
creation lived in harmony, and bloodshed was unknown; ergo, man’s fall in 
Eden had no agency in bringing death into the world; ergo, the chapter in 
Genesis need puzzle her no more. 

Finally, she learned that she was the crowning intelligence in the vast 
progression; that she would ultimately become part of Deity. ‘‘The long 
ascending line, from dead matter to man, had been a progress Godwards, and 
the next advance would unite creation and Creator in one person.” With all 


AUGUSTA J. EVANS. Shea 


her aspirations, she had never dreamed of such a future as was here pro- 
mised her. To-night she was closely following that most anomalous of all 
guides, “‘Herr Teufelsdrockh.” Urged on by the same “unrest,” she was 
stumbling along dim, devious paths, while from every side whispers came to 
her: ‘‘ Nature is one: she is your mother, and divine: she is God! The 
‘living garment of God.’” Through the “everlasting No,” and the ‘ ever- 
lasting Yea,” she groped her way, darkly, trémblingly, waiting for the day- 
star of Truth to dawn; but at last, when she fancied she saw the first rays 
_ silvering the night, and looked up hopefully, it proved one of many ignes- 
fatui, which had flashed across her path, and she saw that it was Goethe, up- 
lifted as the prophet of the genuine religion. The book fell from her nerveless 
fingers; she closed her eyes, and groaned. It was all ‘‘ confusion worse 
confounded.” She could not for her life have told what she believed, much 
less what she did not believe. The landmarks of earlier years were swept 
away; the beacon light of Calvary had sunk below her horizon. A howling 
chaos seemed about to ingulf her. At that moment she would gladly have 
sought assistance from her guardian; but how could she approach him after 
their last interview? The friendly face and cordial kindness of Dr. Asbury 
flashed upon her memory, and she resolved to confide her doubts and diffi- 
culties to him, hoping to obtain, from his clear and matured judgment, some 
clew which might enable her to emerge from the labyrinth that involved her. 
She knelt and tried to pray. To what did she, on bended. knees, send up 
passionate supplications? To nature? to heroes? These were the new 
deities. She could not pray; all grew dark; she pressed her hand to her 
throbbing brain, striving to clear away the mists. ‘‘ Sartor” had effectually 
blindfolded her, and she threw herself down to sleep with a shivering dread, 
as of a young child separated from its mother, and wailing in some starless 
desert. 


CORNELIA GRAHAM’S DEATH. 


One week later, as Beulah was spending her Sabbath evening in her own 
apartment, she was summoned to see her friend for the last time. It was 
twilight when she reached Mr. Graham’s house, and glided noiselessly up 
the thickly-carpeted stairway. The bells were all muffled, and a solemn 
stillness reigned over the mansion. She left her bonnet and shawl in the 
hall, and softly entered the chamber unannounced. Unable to breathe in a 
horizontal position, Cornelia was bolstered up in her easy-chair. Her mother 


344 WOMEN OF THE SOUTH. 


sat near her, with her face hid on her husband’s bosom. Dr. Hartwell 
leaned against the mantel, and Eugene stood on the hearth opposite him, 
with his head bowed down on his hands. Cornelia drew her breath in quick 
gasps, and cold drops glistened on her pallid face. Her sunken eyes wan- 
dered over the group, and when Beulah drew near she extended her hands 
eagerly, while a shadowy smile passed swiftly over her sharpened features. 

“Beulah, come close to me—close.” She grasped her hands tightly, and 
Beulah knelt at the side of her chair. 

‘ Beulah, in a little while I shall be at rest. You will rejoice to see me 
free from pain, won’t you? I have suffered for so many months and years. 
But death is about to release me forever. Beulah, is it forever ?—is it for- 
ever? Am I going down into an eternal sleep, on a marble couch, where 
grass and flowers will wave over me, and the sun shine down on me? Yes, 
it must be so. Who has ever waked from this last dreamless slumber? Abel 
was the first to fall asleep, and since then, who has wakened? No one. 
Earth is full of pale sleepers, and I am soon to join the silent band.” 

There was a flickering light in her eyes, like the flame of a candle low in 
its socket, and her panting breath was painful to listen to. 

“Cornelia, they say Jesus of Nazareth slept, and woke again; if so, you 
will ”—— 

“Ha, but you don't believe that, Beulah. They say—they say! Yes, 
but I never believed them before, and I don’t want to believe them now. I 
will not believe it. It is too late to tell me that now. Beulah, I shall know . 
very soon; the veil of mystery is being lifted. Oh, Beulah, I am glad I am 
going; glad I shall soon have no more sorrow and pain; but it is all dark, 
dark! You know what I mean. Don’t live as I have, believing nothing. 
No matter what your creed may be, hold fast, have firm faith in it. It is 
because I believe in nothing, that I am so clouded now. Oh, it is sucha 
dark, dark, lonely way! IfI had afriend to go with me, I should not shrink 
back, but oh, Beulah, I am so solitary! It seems to me I am going out into 
a great starless midnight.”’ She shivered, and her cold fingers clutched 
Beulah’s convulsively. 

“Calm, yourself, Cornelia. If Christianity is true, God will see that you 
were honest in your skepticism, and judge you leniently. If not, then death 
is annihilation, and you have nothing to dread; you will sink into quiet 
oblivion of all your griefs.” 

_“ Annihilation! then I shall see you all no more!. Oh, why was I ever 
created, to love others, and then be torn away forever, and go back to sense- 


* 


AUGUSTA J. EVANS. "2 BAR 


less dust? I never have been happy; I have always had aspirations after 
purer, higher enjoyments than earth could afford me, and must they be lost 
in dead clay? Oh, Beulah; can you give me no comfort but this? Is this 
the sum of all your study, as well as mine? Ah, it is vain, useless; man can 
find out nothing. We are all blind; groping our way through mysterious 
paths, and now I am going into the last—the great mystery !” 

She shook her head, with a bitter smile, and closed her eyes, as if ‘to shut 
out some hideous spectre. Dr. Hartwell gave her a spoonful of some power- 
ful medicine, and stood watching her face, distorted by the difficulty of 
breathing. A long silence ensued, broken only by the sobs of the parents. 
Cornelia leaned back, with closed eyes, and now and then her lips moved, 
but nothing intelligible escaped them. It was surprising how she seemed to 
rally sometimes, and breathe with perfect ease; then the paroxysms would 
come on more violent than ever. Beulah knelt on the floor, with her fore- 
head resting on the arm of the chair, and her hands still grasped in the firm 
hold of the dying girl. Time seemed to stand still, to watch the issue, for 
moments were long as hours to the few friends of the sufferer. Beulah felt 
as if her heart were leaden, and a band of burning iron seemed drawn about 
her brow. Was this painful parting to be indeed eternal? Was there no 
future home for the dead of this world? Should the bands of love and 
friendship, thus rudely severed, be renewed no more? Was there no land 
where the broken links might be gathered up again? What did philosophy 
say of these grim hours of struggle and separation? Nothing—absolutely 
nothing! Was she to see her sister no more? Was a moldering. mass of 
dust all that remained of the darling dead—the beautiful angel, Lilly, whom 
she had so idolized? Oh! was life, then, a great mockery, and the soul, 
with its noble aims and impulses, but a delicate machine of matter? Her 
brain was in a wild, maddening whirl; she could not weep; her eyes were 
dry and burning. Cornelia moved an instant, and murmured, audibly: 

‘‘¢ For here we have no continuing city, but seek one to come.’ Ah! 
what is its name? that ‘continuing city!’ Necropolis?” Again she_ 
remained, for some time, speechless, 

Dr. Hartwell softly wiped away the glistening drops on her brow, and 
opening her eyes, she looked up at him intently. It was an imploring 
gaze, which mutely said, ‘‘Can’t you help me?” He leaned over, and 
answered it, sadly enough : 

“Courage, Cornelia! It will very soon be over now. The worst is past, 
my friend.” , 

“Yes, | know. There is a chill creeping over me. Where is Eugene?” 


346 WOMEN OF THE SOUTH. 


He came and stood near her; his face full of anguish, which could not 
vent itself in tears. Her features became convulsed as she looked at him; a 
wailing cry broke from her lips, and extending her arms toward him, she 
said, sobbingly : 

‘Shall I see youno more—no more? Oh, Eugene, my brother, my pride, 
my dearest hope! whom I have loved better than my own life, are we now 
parted forever—forever !” 

He laid her head on his bosom, and endeavored to soothe her; but cling- 
ing to him, she said, huskily : 

‘Eugene, with my last breath I implore you, forsake your intemperate 
companions. Shun them and their haunts. Let me die, feeling that at least 
my dying prayer will save you! Oh, when I am gone—when I am silent in 
the graveyard, remember how the thought of your intemperance tortured 
me! Remember how I remonstrated, and entreated you not to ruin your- 
self! Remember that I loved you above everything on earth; and that, in 
my last hour, I prayed you to save yourself! Oh, Eugene, for my sake! 
for my sake! quit the wine cup, and leave drunkenness for others more 
degraded ! Promise me! 
dark ! 

Her eyes were riveted on his, and her lips moved for some seconds ; then 
the clasping arms gradually relaxed; the gasps ceased. Eugene felt a long 
shudder creep over the limbs, a deep, heavy sigh passed her lips, and Corne- 
lia Graham’s soul was with its God. 3 








Where are you?——Oh, it is all cold and 











I can’t see you! Eugene, promise, promise ! Eugene !” 





Ah! after twenty-three years of hope and fear, struggling and question- 
ing, what an exit! Eugene lifted the attenuated form, and placed it on the 
bed; then threw himself into her vacant chair, and sobbed like a broken- 
hearted child. Mr. Graham took his wife from the room; and after some 
moments, Dr. Hartwell touched the kneeling figure, with the face still 
pressed against the chair Eugene now occupied. 

‘Come, Beulah, she will want you no more.” 

She lifted a countenance so full of woe, that as he looked at her, the 
moisture gathered in his eyes, and he put his hand tenderly on her head, 
saying : | 

‘“Come with me, Beulah.” 

‘‘ And this is death. Oh, my God, save me from such. a death!” 

She clasped her hands over her eyes, and shivered; then rising from her 
kneeling posture, threw herself on a couch, and buried her face in its cush- 


ions. That long night of self-communion was never forgotten. 
“4 ** i *k tk i rf ok * 


AUGUSTA J. EVANS. 347 


The day of the funeral was cold, dark and dismal. A January wind 
howled through the streets, and occasional drizzling showers enhanced the 
gloom. The parlors and sitting-room were draped, and on the marble slab 
of one of the tables stood the coffin, covered with a velvet pall. Once 

_ before, Beulah had entered a room similarly shrouded; and it seemed but 
yesterday that she stood beside Lilly’s rigid form. She went in alone, and 
waited some moments near the coffin, striving to calm the wild tumult of 
conflicting sorrows in her oppressed heart ; then lifted the cover, and looked 
on the sleeper. Wan, waxen and silent. No longer the fitful sleep of dis- 
ease, nor the refreshing slumber of health, but the still iciness of ruthless 
death. The black locks were curled around the forehead, and the beautiful 
hands folded peacefully over the heart that should threb no more with the 
anguish of earth. Death had smoothed the brow, and put the trembling 
mouth at rest, and every feature wasin repose. In life she had never looked 
so placidly beautiful. 

‘What availed all her inquiries, and longings, and defiant cries? She 
died, no nearer the truth than when she began. She died without hope, 
and without knowledge. Only death could unseal the mystery,” thought 
Beulah, as she looked at the marble face, ‘and recalled the bitterness of 
its life-long expression. Persons began to assemble; gradually, the rooms 
filled. Beulah bent down, and kissed the cold lips for the last time, and 
lowering her veil, retired to a dim corner. She was very miserable, but 
her eyes were tearless, and she sat, she knew not how long, unconscious 
of what passed around her. She heard the stifled sobs of the bereaved 
parents, as in a painful dream; and when the solemn silence was broken, 
she started, and saw a venerable man, a stranger, standing at the head 
of the coffin; and these words fell upon her ears like a message from 
another world. 

‘‘T am the resurrection and the life,” saith the Lord; ‘‘and he that 
believeth in me, though he were dead, yet shall he live; and whosoever 
liveth and believeth in me shall nevér die!” é 

Cornelia had not believed; was she utterly lost? Beulah asked her- 
self this question, and shrank from the answer. She did not believe: 
would she die as Cornelia died, without comfort? Was there but one 

“salvation? When the coffin was borne out, and the procession formed, ; 
she went on mechanically, and found herself seated in a carriage with 
Mrs. Asbury and her two daughters. She sank back in one corner, and 
the long line of carriages, extending for many squares, slowly wound 


848 WOMEN OF THE SOUTH. 


through the streets. The wind wailed and sobbed, as if in sympathy, and 
the rain drizzled against the window-glass. When the procession reached 
the cemetery, it was too wet to think of leaving the carriages, but Beulah 
could see the coffin borne from the hearse, and heard the subdued voice 
of the minister; and when the shrouded form of the only child was low- 
ered into its final resting-place, she groaned, and hid her face in her 
hands. ‘Should they meet no more?” Hitherto Mrs. Asbury had for- 
borne to address her, but now she passed her arm round the shuddering 
form, and said, gently : 

‘‘My dear Beulah, do not. look so hopelessly wretched. In the midst 
of life, we are in death; but God has given a promise to cheer us all in 
sad scenes like this. St. John was told to write, ‘From henceforth, 
blessed are the dead who die in the Lord, for they rest from their 
labors.’ ”’ . 

‘* And do you think she is lost forever, because she did not believe? Do 
you? Can you?” cried Beulah, vehemently. 

‘‘ Beulah, she had the Bible, which promises eternal life. If she entirely 
rejected it, she did so voluntarily and deliberately ; but only God knows the 
heart—only her Maker can judge her. I trust that even in the last hour, the 
mists rolled from her mind.” | 

Beulah knew better, but said nothing; it was enough to have witnessed 
that darkened soul’s last hour on earth. As the carriage stopped at her door, 
Mrs. Asbury said: 

‘““ My dear Beulah, stay with me to-night. I think I can help you to find 
what you are seeking so earnestly.” 

Beulah shrank back, and answered : 

‘No, no. No one can help me; I must help myself. Some other time I 
will come.” 

The rain fell heavily as she reached her own home, and she went to her 
room with a heaviness of heart almost unendurable. She sat down on the 
rug before the’fire, and threw her arms up over a chair, as she was wont to 
do in childhood, and as she remembered that the winter rain now beat piti- 
lessly on the grave of one who had never known privation, nor aught of grief 
that wealth could shield her from, she moaned bitterly. What lamp had 
philosophy hung in the sable chambers of the tomb ? The soul was impotent 
to explain its origin—how, then, could it possibly read the riddle of final 
destiny? Psychologists had wrangled for ages over the question of “ideas.” 
Were infants born with or without them? Did ideas arise or develop them- 


AUGUSTA J. EVANS. 349 


selves independently of experience? The affirmation or denial of this propo- 
sition alone distinguished the numerous schools, which had so long wrestled 
with psychology; and if this were insolvable, how could human intellect 
question further? Could it bridge the gulf of Death, and explore the shores 
_ of Eternity ? , | 


TRUTH AT LAST TRIUMPHANT. 


She had long before rejected a ‘‘ revealed code” as unnecessary; the next 
step was to decipher nature’s symbols, and thus grasp God’s hidden laws; 
but here the old trouble arose; how far was “individualism” allowable and 
safe? To reconcile the theories of rationalism, she felt, was indeed a hercu- 
lean task, and she groped on in deeper night. Now and then, her horizon 
was bestarred, and, in her delight, she shouted Eureka! But when the 
telescope of her infallible reason was brought to bear upon the coldly glitter- 
ing points, they flickered and went out. More than once, a flaming comet, 
of German manufacture, trailed in glory athwart her dazzled vision; but close 
observation resolved the gilded nebula, and the nucleus mocked her. Doubt 
engendered doubt; the death of one difficulty was the instant birth of another. 
Wave after wave of skepticism surged over her soul, until the image of a 
great personal God was swept from its altar. But atheism never yet 
usurped the sovereignty of the human mind; in all ages, moldering vestiges 
of protean deism confront the giant spectre, and every nation under heaven 
has reared its fane to the “unknown God.” Beulah had striven to 
enthrone in her desecrated soul, the huge, dim, shapeless phantom of pan- 
theism, and had turned eagerly to the system of Spinoza. The heroic gran- 
deur of the man’s life and character had strangely fascinated her; but now 
that idol of a “ substance, whose two infinite attributes were extension and 
thought,” mocked her; and she hurled it from its pedestal, and looked back 
wistfully to the pure faith of her childhood. A Godless world; a Godless 
woman. She took up the lamp, and retired to her own room. On all sides 
books greeted her; here was the varied lore of dead centuries; here she had 
held communion with the great souls entombed in these dusty pages. Here, 
wrestling alone with those grim puzzles, she had read out the vexed and vex- 
ing questions, in this debating club of the moldering dead, and endeavored to 
make them solve them. These well-worn volumes, with close ‘‘ marginalias,” 
echoed her inquiries, but answered them not to her satisfaction. Was her 
life to be thus passed in feverish toil, and ended as by a leap out into a black 


300 WOMEN OF THE SOUTH. 


shoreless abyss? Like a spent child, she threw her arms on the mantel-piece, 
and wept uncontrollably, murmuring : 

‘Oh, better die now, than live in perpetual strugglings! What is life 
worth without peace of mind, without hope; and what hope have I? 
Diamonded webs of sophistry can no longer eftangle; like Noah’s dove, my 
soul has fluttered among them, striving in vain for a sure hold to perch upon ; 


but, unlike it, I have no ark to flee to. Weary and almost hopeless, I would. 


fain believe that this world is indeed as a deluge, and in it there is no ark of 
refuge but the Bible. It is true, I did not see this soul’s ark constructed; I 
know nothing of the machinery employed; and, no more than Noah’s dove, 
can I explore and fully understand its secret chambers; yet, all untutored, the 
exhausted bird sought safety in the incomprehensible, and was saved. As to 
the mysteries of revelation and inspiration, why, I meet mysteries, turn 
which way I will. Man, earth, time, eternity, God, are all inscrutable mys- 
teries. My own soul is a mystery even unto myself, and so long as J am 
impotent to fathom its depths, how shall I hope to unfold the secrets of the 
universe ?” 

She had rejected Christian theism, because she could not understand how 
God had created the universe out of nothing. True, ‘with God all things 
are possible,” but she could not understand this creation out of nothing, and 
therefore would not believe it. Yet (oh, inconsistency of human reasoning!) 
she had believed that the universe created laws: that matter gradually 
created mind. This was the inevitable result’ of pantheism, for according to. 
geology, there was a primeval period, when neither vegetable nor animal 
life existed; when the earth was a huge mass of inorganic matter. Of two 
incomprehensibilities, which was the most plausible? To-night the question 
recurred to her mind with irresistible force, and as her eyes wandered over 
the volumes she had so long consulted, she exclaimed : 

‘Oh, philosophy! thou hast mocked my hungry soul; thy gilded fruits 
have crumbled to ashes in my grasp. In lieu of the holy faith of my girl- 
hood, thou hast given me but dim, doubtful conjecture, cold, metaphysical 
abstractions, intangible shadows, that flit along my path, and lure me on to 
deeper morasses. Oh, what isthe shadow of death, in comparison with the 
starless night which has fallen upon me, even in the morning of my life! - My 
God, save me! Give me light: of myself I can know nothing!” 

Her proud intellect was humbled, and falling on her knees, for the first 
time in many months, a sobbing prayer went vp to the throne of the living 


God; while the vast clockwork of stars looked in on a pale brow and lips, 


where heavy drops of moisture glistened. 


AUGUSTA J. EVANS. 351 


A WIFE’S DIVINE MINISTRY. 


Reader, marriage is not the end of life; it is but the beginning of a new 
course of duties; but I cannot now follow Beulah. Henceforth her history is 
bound up with another’s. To save her husband from his unbelief, is the 
labor of future years. She had learned to suffer, and to bear patiently ; 
and, though her path looks sunny, and her heart throbs with happy 
hopes, this one shadow lurks over her home, and dims her joys. Weeks 
and months glided swiftly on. Dr. Hartwell’s face lost its stern rigidity, 
and his smile became constantly genial. His wife was his idol; day by 
day, his love for her seemed more completely to revolutionize his nature. 
His cynicism melted insensibly away; his lips forgot their iron compres- 
sion; now and then, his long-forgotten laugh rang through the house. 
Beulah was conscious of the power she wielded, and trembled lest she 
failed to employ it properly. One Sabbath afternoon, she sat in her room, 
with her cheek on her hand, absorbed in earnest thought. Her little Bible 
lay on her lap, and she was pondering the text she had heard that morn- 
ing. Charon came and nestled his huge head against her. Presently she 
heard the quick tramp of hoofs and whir of wheels; and soon after, her 
husband entered and sat down beside her. 

‘“ What are you thinking of?” said he, passing his hand over her head, 
carelessly. 

‘“‘ Thinking of my life—of the bygone years of struggle.” 

‘They are past, and can trouble you no more. ‘Let the dead past bury 
its dead!’ ” 

‘‘No, my past can never die. I ponder it often, and it does me good; 
strengthens me, by keeping me humble. I was just thinking of the dreary, 
desolate days and nights I passed, searching for a true-philosophy, and going 
farther astray with every effort. I was so proud of my intellect; put so 
much faith in my own powers; it was no wonder I was so benighted.”’ 

‘¢ Where is your old worship of genius?” asked her husband, watching her 
curiously. 

‘“‘T have not lost it all. Ihope I never shall. Human genius has accom- 
plished a vast deal of man’s temporal existence. The physical sciences have 
been wheeled forward in the march of mind, and man’s earthly path gemmed 
with all that a merely sensual nature could desire. But looking aside from 
these channels, what has it effected for philosophy, that great burden, which 


352 WOMEN OF THE SOUTH. 


constantly recalls the fabled labors of Sisyphus and the Danaides? Since the 
rising of Bethlehem’s star in the cloudy sky of polytheism, what has human 
genius discovered of God, eternity, destiny? Metaphysicians build gorgeous 
cloud palaces, but the soul cannot dwell in their cold, misty atmosphere. 
Antiquarians wrangle and write; Egypt’s moldering monuments are raked 
from their desert graves, and made the theme of scientific debate; but has 
all this learned disputation contributed one iota to clear the thorny way of 
strict morality? Put the Bible out of sight, and how much will human 
intellect discover concerning our origin—our ultimate destiny? In the 
morning of time, sages handled these vital questions, and died, not one step 
nearer the truth than when they began. Now, our philosophers struggle, 
earnestly and honestly, to make plain the same inscrutable mysteries. Yes, 
blot out the record of Moses, and we would grope in starless night ; for not- 
withstanding the many priceless blessings it has discovered for man, the torch 
of science will never pierce and illumine the recesses over which Almighty 
God has hung his veil. Here we see, indeed, as ‘through a glass, darkly.’ 
Yet I believe the day is already dawning, when scientific data will not only 
cease to be antagonistic to scriptural accounts, but will deepen the impress 
of Divinity on the pages of holy writ; when ‘the torch shall be taken out of 
the hands of the infidel, and set to burn in the temple of the living God; 
when Science and Religion shall link hands. I revere the lonely thinkers 
to whom the world is indebted for its great inventions. I honor the tireless 
laborers who toil in laboratories; who sweep midnight skies in search of new 
worlds; who upheave primeval rocks, hunting for footsteps of Deity; and I 
believe that every scientific fact will ultimately prove but another lamp, 
planted along the path which leads to the knowledge of Jehovah! Ah! it is 
indeed peculiarly the duty of Christians, ‘to watch with reverence and joy 
the unveiling of the august, brow of Nature, by the hand of Science; and to 
be ready to call mankind to a worship ever new !’ Human thought subserves 
many useful, nay, noble ends; the Creator gave it, as a powerful instrument 
to improve man’s temporal condition; but oh, sir, I speak of what I know, 
when I say: alas, for that soul who forsakes the divine ark, and embarks on 
the gilded toys of man’s invention, hoping to breast the billows of life, and be 
anchored safely in the harbor of eternal rest! The heathens, ‘ having no law, 
are a law unto themselves ,’ but to such as deliberately reject the given light, 
only bitter darkness remains. I know it; for I, too, once groped, wailing for 
help.” 


“Your religion is full of mystery,” said her husband, gravely. 


AUGUSTA Jn EVANS, 305 


“Yes, of divine mystery. Truly, ‘a God comprehended is no God at all!’ 
Christianity is clear, as torules of life and duty. There is no mystery left 
about the directions to man; yet there isa divine mystery infolding it, 
which tells of its divine origin, and promises a fuller revelation when man is 
. fitted to receive it. If it were-not so, we would call it man’s invention. 
You turn from Revelation, because it contains some things you cannot com- 
prehend ; yet you plunge into deeper, darker mystery, when you embrace the 
theory of an eternal, self-existing universe, having no intelligent creator, yet 
constantly creating intelligent beings. Sir, can you understand how matter 
creates mind ?”’ 

She had laid her Bible on his knee; her folded hands rested upon it, and 
her grey eyes, clear and earnest, looked up reverently into her husband’s 
noble face. His soft hands wandered over her head, and he seemed ponder- 
ing her words. 

May God aid the wife in her holy work of love. 


23 
4 


JANE T. H. CROSS. 


CommeEnD us to the true heart that glows in a true woman’s 
letter, though it be in a strange hand, and address us in formal 
phrase, “dear madam,” and prove, after all, only a letter of 
biographical data. There is a-clear, resonant ring in it—a per- 
tinent simplicity—a dignity—a reticence—an unconscious 
pathos as the pen glides here and there over a life-point with a 
nerve in it. We are put at once in full sympathy with the 
woman and writer. Such a letter we have received from the 
subject of this sketch. She says, modestly : | 

“T shall be glad to further your object in any way that I 
ean. I confess, however, with no affected humility, that I do 
not consider my writings of sufficient importance, or popularity, , 
to entitle me to take rank among literary people. My success 
has been, cliiefly—where, indeed, the heart ought most to covet 
it—among children and sorrowful women; for it is a pleasant 
task to water violets and lilies, but not one in which the busy, 
babbling, showy world feels much concern.” 

“ Children and sorrowful women!” as if to appeal success- 
fully to these were not a popularity of the purest and rarest 
type. But the little books which Mrs. Cross has given to the 
world are not to be limited even to this desirable sphere. They 
are the evident product of intellect and culture, full of vigor, as 
well as the most delicate grace and perception. Her portraiture 
shows the graphic and true lines of a master, and her works are 


804 


~ 


JANE T. H. CROSS. 355 


all touched with the issues of a refined, womanly, and religious 
spirit. | 

The maiden name of Mrs. Cross was Jane Tandy Chinn. 
She is the daughter of Judge Chinn, of Harrodsburg, Kentucky, 
in which place she was born in 1817. She was educated at 
Shelbyville, Kentucky, at the boarding-school of Mrs. Tevis— 
an establishment which has been a blessing to all the Missis- 

sipp1 valley. 

At the.age of eighteen, she married James P. Hardin, son 
of Hon. Ben Hardin, of Kentucky. In 1841, she accompanied 
her husband to Cuba for his health ; but in the autumn of 1842, 
his prospects for a brilliant career were cut off by death. Thus, 
at the age of twenty-five, our author was left a widow with 
three children. 

In 1848, she was married, a second time, to Rev. Dr. Cross, 
of the Methodist Episcopal Church, South. ‘“ Since that time,” 
she says, “my life has been as roving as that of an Arab.” 
The two years following this union were spent in Kentucky. 
Dr. Cross was then stationed two years at Nashville, Tennessee, 
five months at Huntsville, Alabama, and four years at Charles- 
ton, South Carolina. They then travelled in Europe a year, 
enjoying all that came in their way with a zest and entireness 
which are most happily set forth in a volume recently given to 
the world by Dr. Cross. Some extracts from this work, which 
have come under our notice, would seem to prove the author a 
man of fine descriptive and poetic powers, and every way 
worthy of his accomplished wife. | 

In 1858, they returned to South Carolina, and were engaged 
in teaching, at Spartanburg, for eighteen months. In 1859, 
they removed to San Antonio, Texas, where they now reside. 

Be Lbs is easy to see that a life like this must abound in varied 
and interesting incident, but Mrs. Cross, with an off-hand, 
modest grace, thus waives the detail : 


356 WOMEN OF THE SOUTH. 


“T am aware that [ have made the recital of facts as bare as 
possible—not but that ‘thereby hangs a tale ;’ yet I remember 
that when Mazeppa assures Charles XII. that his story is ‘a 
long and sad one,’ the king begs him not to recite vt.” 

Mrs. Cross has been, for some years, an occasional contri- 
butor of prose and poetry to the religious journals of the South. 
She has written a series of stories for children, which were col- 
lected and edited by Dr. Summers, and published in four small 
volumes, called, most appropriately, “‘ Heart Blossoms,” “ Way- 
side F'lowerets,” ‘“ Bible Gleanings,” and  Drift-wood.” 

During her tour through Europe, she corresponded in a 
pleasant, descriptive vein, with the “ Christian Advocate,” and 
the ‘ Courier,” of Charleston. She has also contributed for 
years to the “ Home Circle,” of Nashville, Tenn. ‘ And this,” 
she says, “is the head and front of my offending.” 


SCARLET GERANIUMS. 


Some days seem made expressly for joy. ~ In their very commencement, 
when Aurora lifts the rosy curtains, and reveals the morning chamber of the 
sun, inlaid with pearl, the gracious monarch slips to the threshold, and 
gives her such a hearty nod of approbation, that a shower of light falls from 
his curls upon the awaking earth. The earth herself is clothed in green; 
for, like the milk-maid in the fable, that color ‘‘ becomes her best.”’ Still, as 
the royal personage, gathering his golden robes about him, advances in his 
walk through the blue fields of heaven, he looks down smiling to our little 
world, and it smiles back to him, as a child might smile into the face of its 
father. 

These are the days that are made for joy. Then care goes skulking off 
into dark closets and corners ; and grief wraps itself up in the drawers that 
- contain the clothes of dead people; and despair lies on the highway, fainting 
beneath the warm rays, and being suffocated by the fragrance of flowers; 
and patient sorrow sits, looking like one of those beautiful paintings of India- 
ink that are touched with gold. 

It was just such a day as this that I sat within a room, and gazed at the 


JANE T. H. CROSS. Stay 


gas fixtures in the centre, and at the white glass bell, with its blue rim that 
hung above, a crystal morning-glory, bringing to mind the green fields and 
flowery hedges; and then I looked upon a gilt-framed mirror that flashed 
above the marble mantel-piece ; and then I looked at the embroidered muslin 
curtain, that softened the light as it came through the window, and at the 
blue hangings above. And when I had tired of these, my eyes rested upon 
the pure white marble table that stood before me. I felt that it was very 
pleasant, even in those little household matters, to be surrounded by beauti- 
ful objects; and that it would be a very, very great privation if all those 
objects were shut out forever, and the windows of the soul darkened. 

Milton says, after he became blind, ‘“‘God chastises me with two rods, 
and one of them is aclub.” It must be hard to bear this blindness, and 
deafness is but little inferior to it. Just imagine every sound in the world 
to cease suddenly—the ticking of the clock, the hum of the city, the carol- 
ling of the birds, the gurgling of the brook, the melodious moaning of the 
ocean, the voices of children and of dear friends! It makes one shudder, 
and feel as if he were drawing his shroud around him, and stepping down 
into his grave. ; 

Such thoughts were naturally suggested by the fact, that on the other 
side of the marble table sat a dark-eyed, pleasant-looking gentleman, 
performing operations for diseases of the eyes and ears. He had been 
thus engaged from the time I hadenteredthe room. The patient’s chair was 
never empty. A few moments sufficed for each; but the place was no 
sooner vacated by one, than it was occupied by another. Perhaps this 
day, expressly made for joy, gave them hopes of a happy issue; for still 
the sun kept gazing down through the shaded window, smiling, and seem- 
ing to say, ‘‘ Now something good is going to happen.” 

Presently the operator made a signal, and, as a gentleman approached 
the chair, he remarked: “ This gentleman has been deaf and dumb from 
his birth.” He then commenced using his little glass tubes, mops, air- 
pumps, etc., as quietly and composedly as if he were merely going to 
shave the man. After a few moments, he said, “I am now going to try 
if he can hear. I wish you to observe his eye. If he hears, you will 
perceive it by the expression of his eyes.” He then.took a small India- 
rubber bag, with a brass mouth-piece, and, putting it to the patient’s ear, 
made a noise such as is sometimes made by a child’s toy. 

And now I am disposed to lay down my pen, for I never can convey 
to you an idea of the face that presented itself before us. The flash of 


358 WOMEN OF THE SOUTH. » 


intelligence, the joy, surprise, and inquiry were inimitable and indescri- 
bable. It brought to. my mind the exclamation of N. P. Willis’s little 
girl : 


‘Father, dear father, God has made a star !” 


and it appeared to me that God had just then made a soul; and that this 
soul, still glowing with the light of heaven, warm from the hand of his 
Oreator, was flashing through the eyes, and playing like summer lightning 
about the mouth. At every repetition of the noise, the face beamed anew. 
Every countenance in the room threw back the irradiating joy. Glad 
hands were clapped, and ‘‘Is it not beautiful? Oh! is it not beautiful 2” 
was repeated again and again. My God! let me henceforth be more grate- 
ful for this delightful sense of hearing. Was the tone of that poor squeak- 
ing India-rubber bag such entrancing music to him who had never heard 
a sound before? Then, let me listen to the music world around me, and 
let the various notes coming from all objects melt into a blissful melody,of 
praise to God! 

And hat was the first time he had ever heard! My mind ran forward 
to the time when the dull ear of death shall be awakened by the harmony of 
heaven, and I knew the sound would be still stranger and more entrancing 
than those earthly sounds to the deaf mute. In confirmation of this, I could 
but think of poor Cowper dying with ‘‘ unutterable despair ” upon his lips, 
and yet with a face, when those lips had grown silent, suddenly beaming 
with inexpressible joy and surprise. Yes, truly! some days are made for 
joy. May such, dear reader, be your day of death, and mine. 


LA PETITE FEE. 


When I was but a girl, numbering not more than a dozen summers, 
I was taken from the tender surroundings of home, and sent to a boarding- - 
school. There I was an utter stranger. Teachers and pupils were unknown 
to me. It seemed to me I met no glance of sympathy. The place,: which 
has since become the warm nest of my affections, appeared to me then 
cold and strange. 

Shy and sensitive, I drew off from the girls around me, and wandered 
into the yard, <A clothes-line was stretched from tree to tree. I caught that 
with my hands, and leaning my head against it, stood, looking wistfully 


* 


JANE T.H. CROSS. 359 
* 

through the crevices of the high plank fence. There I stood, a lone, 
awkward little stranger. I know not whether I thought of anything, 
except that I knew nobody. Just then, a meek-eyed girl, smaller than 
myself, with very soft brown hair, approached me. <A few kind words 
came bubbling up from the pure fountain of the heart, and ran over the 
ruby brim of her lips. I loved her. Her soul addressed me, and from 
that hour we were no longer strangers. 

Many bright girls have entered those halls of learning—many lovely 
and accomplished women have come thence; but none brighter or lovelier 
than my little friend of the clothes-line. Whatever of knowledge was set 
before her, was seized by her mind with delight. She was the wit of 
our room; and many a contest have I had with her, and many a time 
been foiled, while our mutual friend and music-teacher, herself a wit of 
the first order, sat by, laughing and cheering us on. 

Her temper, too, was like the little island of Santa-Cruz, perpetual 
blossom and sunshine. So admirably were her gifts of mind tempered by | 
the graces of her heart, that none of us thought of being jealous, but all 
loved “‘la petite fee,” as we often called her. 

At length our school-days were ended—those sweet May-days, when 
the haleyon built her nest upon the waves of life, and snowy sails were 
filled with odorous breezes. Ah, those were the days when a French 
dialogue had more glory than the most gorgeous gala-day at Victoria’s 
court. 

But those sweet days passed away—away—yet our friendship passed 
not. We grew into womanhood. Still every evening we flew to meet 
each other with the eagerness of children, and hand in hand we traversed. 
the shady walks of my native village. } 

Again the kaleidoscope of life was changed; but again a kind Provi- 
dence threw us together. She became the wife of a minister of the 
Gospel—of whom else could she have been the wife? He was my pastor; 
and she my pastor’s wife—the dear little fairy. 

And then she was 4 mother, and held in her arms her first-born, and 
hung enraptured on its smiles. She had never known any sorrow—never! 
Trained by kind, judicious, and religious parents, married to a gentle, 
tender husband, she had ever been so shielded, that the rough winds of 
adversity could not reach her. But.as she held her babe in her arms, and the 
mother’s soul revelled in all those blissful emotions that only a mother’s soul 
ean know, God said: ‘Give it to me!” and—she gave itto him! She 


360 WOMEN OF THE SOUTH. 

reached forth no rebellious arms to snatch back her receding child: she sent 
up no murmuring cry. She gave it to him! and meekly folded her hands 
upon the heart from which the life-blood was oozing. 

I shall never forget it—the day she came to spend with me in the country, 
when her little one was gone. The pale face is still before me, and the 
mourning garb, as she walked with me among the shrubbery, and plucked the 
rose-buds and tried to talk cheerfully, and to manifest an interest in the 
things about her; and sweetly she spoke of the Jove of God. 

I have read sermons on resignation, and I have Kstened to them from the 
lips of the most eloquent preachers, and the waves of time have washed out 
in part or entirely the impression; but a sermon that can never be washed 
out, an impression that can never be erased, a lesson in resignation that can 
never be forgotten, is the memory of that pale woman, amid the rose-bushes 
—the countenance so filled with mingled anguish and submission. Such, oh, 
my God, are the sermons preached by thy true children—sermons which 
shall tell in Eternity ! 

And now, when my soul chafes at the cords that bind it, or frets at the 
control of circumstances, or is tempted foolishly to murmur at the good pro- 
vidence of God, suddenly a grove surrounds me, and lilacs spring up, with 
blushing, pendent blossoms, and rose-bushes with bursting buds, and from 
out the blooming roses arises the sweet face of my friend, and it says to my 
troubled heart, ‘‘ Peace, be still!” 


THE MAGIO RING. 


J have in my possession a ring. It looks much like other rings, wrought 
of gold plainly, and, instead of a sparkling gem, containing what is worth a 
great deal more to me—a single plait of hair. 

Yet there is something very strange about this ring. Let me whisper to 
you: it is a magic ring, and shows me such beautiful things! It would make 
your very heart dance like an Easter sun to see them. It was but a few 
evenings since that I sat at an open window. The wind was passing over 
the fields of ripened grain, converting it into flowing waves of gold. The 
senses were bathed in the odors of new-mown hay. The hard-working bee 
was just crawling into his hive, weighed down with wax—the gathering of 
the day. The whole western sky was a flood of rosy light; and while I gazed 
at it, I wondered if heaven could be fairer. 


JANE T. H. CROSS. 261 

* 

Presently my eye fell, and rested upon the ring. It did not disturb the 
sweet thoughts that nature had poured into my heart. There lay, inclosed 
in the circlet of gold, that little lock of auburn hair. It was shorn from the 
head of my earliest friend and playmate—dear ‘‘ Mary.” 

But, as I continued to look, how was I surprised to see the plait untwist- 
ing, and forming itself into tiny ringlets like curling sunbeams! But it did 
not stop there. When the hair all hung in clustering bunches, I saw beneath 
a faint mist, that after awhile began to assume, very indistinctly, the form 
of human features, and at last there flashed out two great brown eyes, as 
you have seen two stars burst through the evening sky; and then came the 
white brow, and the nose, and laughing mouth, full of glittering teeth. Oh, 
was it not beautiful? A face like the Italian paintings of Beatrice Cenci— 
so firm, so brave, yet so lovely. Truthfulness was written on every line. 

After the face, the whole form appeared; and it was a little girl, and she 
was going to school, with her basket, and her dinner, and her satchel of 
books; and my spirit could discern what the little chatterer was saying, 
though no mortal ear save mine could hear a sound: nor mine unless my 
eye was fixed upon the magic ring. She sang, she laughed, she leaped over 
every object that came in her way. 

Though it was ripe summer around me, in the ring it was but the spring- 
tide ; and the bursting roses were not gayer than the child that was playing 
among them. Soon I saw her pass under the cherry-trees, and come to the 
white school-house. It was still play-time, and the scholars all gathered 
around her, and began to speak eagerly of their May-day, for it was fast 
coming on, and she would be their May-queen, for she was not yet chosen. 
But the teacher was seen coming along the gravel-walk, and her brow was 
very stern. They saw that something had displeased her: so the children 
all walked into the school-room, and sat upon their benches quite mute and 
still. 

As soon as the school was opened, she called little Mary to her, and 
spoke to her angrily. I could not exactly hear what she said, for the 
ring does not give out distinctly tones of anger; but I gathered that the 
child had repeated something imprudently, and the teacher was urging her 
to say who had told her, that the author might be punished. At the first 
words of rebuke the little girl’s face was flushed as a crimson rose, and the 
tears flashed over it in big drops of summer rain; but when the teacher 
continued to insist on her giving the name of her informer, she ceased to 
weep, and looking calmly up, she replied, ‘‘I will not tell, madam.” Then I 


362 WOMEN ‘OF THE SOUTH. 


heard the teacher say something about “‘a willful falsehood ;” and she led the 
little girl along, who went very quietly, till they came to an “ upstairs” 
room, away from the school. Into this room Mary was put, and the door 
was shut and locked, and she was left quite alone. 

At first she wept; but after a few moments she threw her chee apron 
up over her face, and burst into a laugh, and murmured to herself, “‘ Well, 
I don’t care. It is not false: it is true, for Sis told me so. But Sis is sick 
to-day, and cannot come to school; so she will not know it, and I shall not 
tell, and they cannot punish her.” . 

Then she crept to the window, and, climbing upon a stool, she looked 

at the white blossoms on the tops of the cherry-trees, and listened to a 
red-bird as it kept singing, ‘‘ Sweet, O sweet, O sweet, O sweet!” and she 
wished they would come and let her out. At last her head dropped upon 
the window-sill, her snowy eyelids closed, and the last tear-drop fell, and 
lay glittering upon her cheek. Shewas asleep. Her face grew bright with 
smiles; and I knew that the angels were talking to her, and telling her 
strange stories of the far-off land. 
' A Jong time she had thus lain and slept, and smiled to listen toghe angels, 
when she was aroused by a message from the teacher. She returned to the 
school-room, where she found her sister, who had recovered from her indis- 
position, and had come to school. Finding Mary absent, she inquired the 
cause; and when she had learned it, at once avowed the truth. Mary’s 
teacher was then very sorry, and sent for her; and I heard her say to the 
scholars: ‘‘This noble little girl would not tell a falsehood, but preferred 
being punished herself to having her sister punished. How shall she be 
rewarded?” And their voices, which sounded in the magic ring as loud as 
the noise of the humming-bird, shouted, ‘“‘She is our Queen of May! Our 
Queen of May!” 

Then came the May-day and che May-pole, and the basket of roses, and 
festoons of flowers, and the pattering of busy, happy feet; and Mary walked 
into the midst-of her companions—their queen—in a white muslin dress, and 
a garland around her head, composed of buds entwisted with green leaves 
and white roses, half bursting. But when at last they reached the bower, 
and the little girls began to sing a song of welcome around her, my heart 
overflowed, tears of joy blinded my eyes, and before I knew it, I exclaimed, 
‘Dear Mary! dear sister of my heart!” The charm was broken, the vision 
vanished; and when I wiped away the tears, that I might see, nothing 
remained but the simple plait of auburn hair. 


JANE T. H. CROSS. 363 


THE MAN-ANGEL. 


The heart-blossom that I pluck this evening, to weave into your little 
garland, is a very sweet one—a pale floweret of memory that often opens 
and sheds its fragrance around me in the night-time. It is my recollec- 
tion of an angel that I once knew. Now I see your eyes begin to twinkle, 
and a smile play around your rose-bud lips; for you do not believe that 
I ever indeed knew an angel, and think that I intend to “make up” a 
story only to amuse you; but I am serious: I once knew an angel, and 
used to go see him, and sometimes he would come to see me. 

Tlow do you suppose he looked? Do you think his long sunny curls 
fell over. shoulders as fair as moonlight; that his delicate feet were like 
mother of pearl; and that his wings rustled softly as he folded them 
together, as the leaves of the aspen do; that his words flowed forth a 
perpetual music—an unceasing song of joy; and that he made his home 
in some bright star, such as Sirius, to which he would float off in the 
evening,” looking, in the distance, like a silvery cloud amid the blue air? 
You are all wrong. He was none of that. It is true he had a lovely 
face, because it was full of love for everything; and his lips were beauti- 
ful, because they spoke comfort to everybody; and his eye was full of 
light, which it had drawn from heaven, and which it had shed upon 
earth; but when I knew him his hair was white, for the sorrows of 
many years had bleached it; and his feet were encased in stout leather 
shoes, which were covered with dust in travelling from house to house 
on his errands of charity ; and his clothes were very plain, for the money 
which would have bought him finer was given to clothe the naked. 

His house was a humble one—a long, low, brick dwelling, that had 
three rooms. One of these was his school-room; for he spent many years 
among those dear little beings who are the only things in all our world 
of which Christ has said—‘‘ Of such is the kingdom of heaven.” 

In his room you would find a bed and a table, a cupboard, and a few 
chairs. If there were other pieces of furniture, they were usually lent to 
others, who perhaps may not have needed them so much. Upon the wall 
hung a few pictures of his friends. One was a miniature of Thomas 
Jefferson, given by the hand of the President himself to this Man-Angel; 
and I have often thought that the great author of the Declaration of Inde- 
pendence might veil his face before this—his early friend. 


364 WOMEN OF THE SOUTH. 


In the windows of his room were sweet and blushing verbenas, and 
“lady’s ear-drops,” and blowing roses; and upon the table, under the 
window, lay the old Bible. This was his casket of jewels, and hence he 
drew the ornaments that made him so glorious. 

How often in this room have I looked at the dear old man and his 
gentle wife, while their two grandchildren played about the door! and [ 
have tried to think of somebody in history or in romance to whom I could 
compare him. Sometimes I have thought of the Vicar of Wakefield, but 
the Vicar was not so pious, and I have said to myself, ‘No, he is a 
Man-Angel;” and I have felt there was something awful in the presence 
of such sublime virtue. ; 

On one occasion, after a severe illness, I heard him say, ‘‘ Death looked 
me in the face, and I thank God, I could look him in the face.” Think 
of that! To be able to look death in the face! and with that serene, high 
look! Was it not beautiful ? 

I might tell you many stories that would interest you, and make you love 
this being, and make you love virtue more. I could tell you how often, 
when I have been weary and dispirited, he has come, and, sitting quietly 
beside me, has spoken to me like a messenger from heaven, so encouragingly 
and kindly, that he has left my heart gladdened, as he has gone forth on his 
mission to pour the bright waters of consolation on some other drooping 
head. He was an apostle, baptizing every heart with joy. 

I had not known him long, when a dreadful sickness swept through our 
town. Many of the people fled in terror—many remained trembling every 
hour, lest death should enter their dwellings. Then might be seen at all 
times, this Man-Angel—‘‘ unhasting, unresting’””—making his rounds amid 
sickness, and suffering, and death. The perverse patient who refused to take 
medicine from all others, received the bitter draught from his hand. ‘‘ When 
the ear heard him, it blessed him; and when the eyes saw him, it gave wit- 
ness unto him.” 

It seems but .yesterday that he was here “with us, but not of us.” <At 
last, one sad morning, it was said, ‘‘ He also is ill;” and every physician in 
the place was around his bed, and his lowly dwelling was crowded with 
those that loved him; and every one felt it a privilege to be permitted to 
hand him a drink of water, or to adjust his pillow, or to wipe the cold sweat 
from his brow. There the rich and the poor met together to do him honor, 
and they tried very hard to save him; but he said, “‘ Nay, if it be God’s 
will, I would rather die.” And one would not wonder at this; for it was 


es 


JANE T. H. GROSS. 365 


natural that he should not wish to stay with ws, because he was not like us; 
but he wanted to go where his Father was, and where his brother angels 
were, and where his fortune was, that he had ‘‘ sent before him in the shape 
of alms.” Was he not right ? 

I looked on the face of the dying saint,; and my soul kept praying silently 
to God, that the mantle of this Elijah might fall upon me; but oh, I am not 
like him! 

They dressed him in a suit of clothes which the ladies of the town had 
given him, and which he would not wear while he lived, because he would 
weargnothing he had not paid for himself, so independent was he; and 
then ‘they spread a white sheet over him; and when the people were 
gone, and the house was hushed, I reverently turned down the sheet and 
gazed on the face of death. Oh, I have seen most beautiful things! beautiful 
painting, and beautiful sculpture! I have gazed upon the face of a lovely 
woman, until my heart has ‘“‘reeled with its fullness.’ In nature and in art 
I have seen much that is a delight to look upon. But never, never, have I 
seen anything more solemnly beautiful than the dead face of that ‘‘ Man- 
Angel.” 


SYRINGA. 


“Oh! who is there among us in whom childhood is not a thousand times awakened by music ? 
And she speaks to him, and asks him, ‘ Have not the rose-buds yet opened that I gave thee ??— 
* Ah, yes, indeed, they have opened, but they were white roses.’ "—Jean Paul. 


Once when it was early morning, in a meadow broad and green, 
Sat I by a singing streamlet, sat I gazing on its sheen— 


Gazing, too, upon the shadows of the broad leaved sycamore, 
While they danced upon the waters, as upon a crystal floor. 


Fleecy clouds above me floated, floated slowly on the air: 
Soft, subduing strains of music chased away the bosom’s care. 


O’er the meadow came a maiden tripping through the pearly dew, 
And the drops were thickly glittering on her foot without a shoe: 


O’er her shoulders hung her tresses, long, and fair, and golden hung—~ 
Then she oped her lips, and sweetly spoke the little maiden’s tongue: 


"366 | WOMEN OF THE SOUTH. 


_ “Here my apron full of blossoms—blossoms in the bud I bring, 
Take, and keep them, till they open wide and blushing in the spring.” 


I have kept the buds, fair maiden, water’d them at morn and night ; 
And the buds have open’d, maiden, but the roses all are white.” 
¥ ® 


THE RILL. 


Adown a sunny mountain side, me 
A streamlet rippled gay and proud; 

And, fast and faster as it hied, 
It smiled, and sang, and laugh’d aloud. 


For ’mid the rocks and woods, its home 
Was in that mountain hid from sight ; 
And it had come abroad to roam, 
And revel in the golden light. 


‘““ Now, Ocean, ho! now, Ocean, ho!” 
It sang with many a merry wink « 

‘* Dark home, unloved, from thee, I go, 
Into the ocean’s lap to sink !” 


But, lo! a precipice so deep, 

It makes the little wavelets whirl! 
It pauses—now it takes the leap, 

And falls below in showers of pearl! 


Then on it goes, over many a mile, ° 
Nor seeks the sun, nor fears the cloud ; 
And “Ocean, ho!” it cries the while, 
‘Old Ocean, ho!” and laughs aloud. 


Nor valleys green, nor smiling meads, 
Can turn it from its steady way ; 
Nor flowrets fair, nor flaunting weeds, 
Can tempt it in its course to stay. 


JANE T. H. CROSS. 367 


And now it rolls a river wide, 
While forests rear themselves around ; 
And goodly cities stand beside 
Thesever-smiling, océan-bound. 
Nor rolling car, nor rattling dray, 
Nor puffing boat, the current heeds ; 
But onward still it wends its way, 
Still onward on the ocean speeds. 


As thus unheeding flows the rill, 
To mingle with the boundless sea, 
The earnest spirit upward still 
Directs its course, O God, to thee! 


SONNET. 


(WITH A WITHERED LEAF.) 


This that I send—this simple withered leaf, 
Might float unnoted on the wind or tide, 
Or by the careless foot be thrust aside, 
Nor to the heart bring aught of joy or grief. 
It knew no brighter birth than. other plants, 
To no more verdant coloring was born ; 
Indeed, it might, perchance, have been the scorn 
Of some gay flower that on the light breeze flaunts. 
Wherefore is then the offering? Where the charm, 
That makes this trifling leaf a treasured thing? 
The atmosphere that nursed it heard him sing, 
Whose tuneful notes the world were loth to lose: 
In Petrarch’s haunts it grew—shield it from harm! 
A sad and sweet memento, plucked beside Vaucluse ! 








MARY) Se'B) DANA SELENIDE ER: 


Music is a fine immortalizer of poetry. A song that comes 
to us, pulsing not only with faultless rhythm and true sentiment, 
but with “concord of sweet sounds,” we never forget. All 
through life the worded strain sings on in our hearts ; we doubt, 
indeed, if it be lost when the new life begins. Witness to this 
the dear old melodies, “Sweet Home,” “I would not Live 
Alway,” “The Old Oaken Bucket,’ ‘“ Woodman Spare that 
Tree,” and a whole host of simple ballads, which our hearts 
could not unlearn if they would. It seems very easy to make 
songs, and so, doubtless, it is for those naturally gifted in that 
delicate department of art; but the poet is not always, nor 
necessarily, a song-writer. His production may lack no one of. 
the elements of a true poem—may flow in pure and perfect 
cadences, yet be wanting in the subtle adaptation to methodical 
music, which belongs to the song proper. | 

In this line of poetic inspiration, Mrs. Dana—now Mrs. 
Shindler—has been eminently successful. Her “ Northern ” and 
“Southern Harp” have become a household institution. Acting 
upon the brusque suggestion of some one—we cannot now 
recall whom—that our sweetest music had belonged to the 
devil long enough, she selected some of our most popular and 
delicious airs, and wedded to them the flowing words of her 
own sainted and sorrowing Muse. As a Sunday evening 
resource alone, these collections are priceless. 


“Mary Stanly Bunce Palmer was born in Beaufort, South 
868 


MARY S. B. DANA SHINDLER. 369 


Carolina, in 1810. She was the daughter of Rev. Benjamin M. 
Palmer, D.D., who was, at that time, pastor of the Congrega- 
tional Church in Beaufort. In 1814, the family removed to 
Charleston, Dr. Palmer having been called to the pastorate of 
the Independent church in that city. His congregation was 
principally made up of planters, who divided the year between 
the city and their large plantations. Reverting to this period 
of her life, Mrs. Shindler says: 

“TI well remember the delight with which we children uset 
to anticipate our spring and Christmas holidays, which we were 
sure to spend upon some neighboring plantation, released from all 
our city trammels, running perfectly wild, as all city children 
were expected to do, contracting sudden and violent intimacies 
in all the negro houses, about Easter and Christmas times, that 
we might have a store of eggs for sundry purposes, for which 
we gave, in exchange, the most gaudy cotton handkerchiefs that 
could be bought in Charleston. It was during these delightful 
rural visits that what little poetry I have in my nature was fos- 
tered and developed; and at an early age I became sensible of 
something within me which often brought tears to my eyes 
when I could. not, for the life of me, express my feelings. The 
darkness and loneliness of our vast forests filled me with inde- 
scribable emotions, and above all other sounds, the music of the 
thousand Afolian harps sighing and wailing through a forest of 
pines, was most affecting to my youthful heart.” 


Miss Palmer was not only reared in a fine social atmosphere, | 
but enjoyed, in her own home, the most careful and judicious: 


culture. She commenced her school-life under the charge of 
the Misses Ramsay, daughters of Daniel Ramsay, the historian, 
and grand-daughters of Mr. Laurens, who figured in the history 


of the Revolution. In 1825, she accompanied her parents to. 


Hartford, Connecticut, and was then placed in the seminary of 
Rev. Mr. Emerson, at Wethersfield, Connecticut. In 1826, she 
24 


— 





370 WOMEN OF THE SOUTH. 


entered the Young Ladies’ Seminary at Elizabethtown, New 
Jersey, intending to remain long enough at the North to rein- 
state her health, which was then very delicate; but she began 
to pine for her Southern home, and in six months was allowed 
to return to it. Several months were afterward spent by her | 
in a seminary at New Haven, Connecticut. 
At this time she was an occasional contributor to the “ Rose 

Bud,” a periodical then under the editorial charge of Mrs. 
Gilman. | 

On the 19th of June, 1835, she married Mr. Charles KH. 
Dana, and accompanied him to New York, where they resided 
for three years. During these years she continued to write 
poetry, but published nothing until 1841. The mournful tone 
of her muse is best explained by the following extract from the 
introduction to the “‘ Southern Harp :” 


There was a time when all to me was light; 

No shadows stole across my pathway bright. 

I had a darling sister—but she died. 

For many years we wandered side by side, 

And oft these very songs she sung with me; 
No wonder then, if they should plaintive be! 

I had an only brother—and he died— 

Away from home, and from his lovely bride ; 
And not long after, those I loved too well, 
Pale—cold—and still—in death’s embraces fell ; 
In two short days on me no more they smiled, 
My noble husband, and my only child ! 

"T'was sorrow made me write these plaintive lays; 
And yet, if sad they are, they end in praise. 
Oh, God! I thank thee for my mother’s breast, 
Where I can lay my head, and sweetly rest! 

I thank thee for my father’s fostering arms, 

On which I lean, and fear no rude alarms! 


MARY S. B. DANA. SHINDLER. 371 


Oh ye who’ve reached the lofty heights of fame, 
Remember mine is but a youthful name. 

I pray you with benignant eyes look down, 

Nor from your intellectual eyries frown 

On one, whose trembling steps have just begun 
To climb th’ ascent your eagle flights have won. 
No laurel wreath, to decorate my brow, 

Held out by fame’s bright goddess, lures me now. ~ 
May I but know I’ve done my humble part, — 
By poetry and song, to cheer the heart, 

Or wake in any breast one thrilling chord, 

"Tis all I ask—’twill be a rich reward! 


After the death of her husband and son, in 1839, to wile her 
mind from sorrowful memories, Mrs. Dana turned to literary 
pursuits, and at last conceived the happy idea of adapting sacred 
words to popular secular music, which resulted in the “ South- 
ern Harp.” This collection was published early in the year 
1841, at New York. 

From that time she wrote constantly, and soon produced 
another volume, similar in design to the first, which was pub- 
lished under the title of the “ Northern Harp,” and proved 
equally successful. About this time she also published a volume 
of poems, entitled “The Parted Family and other Poems,” 
which had a large sale. 

In 1848, she produced a prose work called “ Charles Mor- 
ton, or the Young Patriot,” a tale of the Revolution, which was 
soon followed by “ The Young Sailor,” and “ Forecastle Tom.” - 
These works were all well received. 

Mrs. Dana had been bred strictly in the Calvinistic school, 
but in the year 1844 she began to question the grounds of Trini- 
tarian doctrine, and early in the year 1845, to the regretful sur- 
prise of her parents and friends, embraced the Unitarian faith. 
To define and defend her position, she then published a volume 





372 WOMEN OF THE SOUTH. 


entitled “ Letters to Relatives and Friends.” This work, the 
largest of her prose volumes, appeared in 1845, and was at once 
republished in London. 
In 1847, she was severely afflicted in the death of both 
parents: and on the 18th of May, 1848, became the wife of 
. Rev. Robert D. Shindler, of the Episcopal Church. Having 
returned to her early faith, they are in full communion. 
In April, 1850, Mr. and Mrs. Shindler removed to Mary- 
land, and subsequently to Shelbyville, Kentucky, where Mr. 
Shindler accepted a professorship in Shelby College. 


THE MORNING STAR OF THE SPIRIT. 


When evening steals o’er me with silence and gloom, 
And night-flowers are breathing their fragrant perfume, 
Then, softly retiring, and kneeling alone, 

Tmay ask Heaven’s mercy for the hours that are gone. 


The bright stars may spangle the blue vaulted sky, 

And dearly I love them, gay dwellers on high ; 

But the night of my soul would be starless and drear, 

If the bright ‘‘ morning-star” did not shine on me there. 


O star of my spirit! thy soft polar ray 

Can warm me, and cheer me, and brighten my way ; 
For earth’s dearest pleasures seem changeful to me, 
Like the gay-dancing sunbeams that shine on the sea. 


THE FADED FLOWER AND THE CRUSHED HEART. 


I have seen a fragrant flower 
All impearled with morning dew ; 
I have plucked it from the bower, 
Where in loveliness it grew. 





MARY 8S. B. DANA SHINDLER. 373 


O, twas sweet, when gayly vying 
With the garden’s richest bloom ; 

But when faded, withered, dying, 
Sweeter far its choice perfume. 


So the heart, when crushed by sorrow, 
Sends its richest streams abroad, 
While it learns sweet balm to borrow 
From th’ uplifted hand of God. 
Not in its sunny days of gladness 
Will the heart be fixed on Heaven ; 
When ’tis wounded, clothed in sadness, 
Oft its richest love is given. 


THE BLEST, ETERNAL HOME. 


There’s not a bright and beaming smile, 
Which in this world I see, 
But turns my heart to future joy, 
And whispers ‘‘ heaven” to me. 
Though often here my soul is sad, 
And falls the silent tear, 
There is a world of smiles and love, 
And sorrow dwells not there. 


I never clasp a friendly hand, 
In greeting or farewell, 

But thoughts of my eternal home 
Within my bosom swell. 

There, when we meet with holy joy, 
No thoughts of parting come, 

But never-ending ages still 
Shall find us all at home. 


374 


WOMEN OF THE SOUTH. 


SHED NOT A TEAR. 


« 


Shed not a tear o’er your friend’s early bier, 
When I am gone, when I am gone; 

Smile if the slow-tolling bell you should hear, 
When I am gone, I am gone. 

Weep not for me when you stand round my grave, 

Think who has died his beloved to save, 

Think of the crown all the ransomed shall have, 
When I am gone, I am gone. 


Plant ye a tree, which may wave over me, 
When I am gone, when I am gone; 

Sing ye a song if my grave you should see, 
When I am gone, I am gone. 

Come at the close of a bright summer’s day, 

Come when the sun sheds its last ling4ring ray, 

Come, and rejoice that I thus passed away, 
When I am gone, I am gone. 


LIKE A DREAM WHEN ONE AWAKETH. 


Like a dream when one awaketh, 
Vanished away, 

Earthly joy the heart forsaketh, 
Doomed to decay ; 

But when flesh and spirit faileth, 
Heaven grows more dear, 

And when grief the heart assaileth, 
O, shed no tear. 


Dearest hopes and joys may perish, 
Lost in an hour; 

All the love the heart can cherish 
May lose its power. 


MARY S. B. DANA SHINDLER. 375 


When the storm is gathering o’er thee, 
Do not despair ; 

Heaven can every joy restore thee, 
More pure and fair. , 


Mid thy gloom and desolation, 
Whene’er they come, 

For thy peace and consolation, 
Think of thy home. 

There thy joys shall last forever, 
Changeless and bright ; 

Clouds shall dim, O, never, never, 
That world of light. 


ANN ELIZA DUPUY. 


Tun works of this writer, like those of Mrs. Southworth, 
have a strong-hold upon the popular mind. They abound in 
the same vivid portraiture and sharp situations, while her 
imagination, taking a wide, idiosyncratic range, gives to all her 
productions the stamp of personality. 

Miss Dupuy is a native of Petersburg, Va., but removed in 
early life to Norfolk. Her father, a merchant and ship-owner 
of that city, was a lineal descendant of the Huguenots. Soon 
after the revocation of the edict of Nantes, her distinguished 
ancestor—an officer of noble blood in the army of Louis XIV. 
—set sail with a faithful band of Huguenots for America, and 
colonized upon the James River, upon a tract of land which. 
had been granted them by James II. of England. On the 
maternal side, she is descended from Joel Sturdevant, one of 
the heroes of the Revolution, who fitted up a privateer at his 
own expense, and performed such good service that he received 
the fitle of Commodore. | 

Before our author had reached womanhood, her father, 
impelled by.pecuniary reverses, emigrated to Kentucky. I 
was in aid of his efforts to retrieve their fallen fortunes, that 
her first work—“ Merton; a Tale of the Revolution ”—was 
written. | 

After the death of her father, she commenced a strict course 
of study, and adopted the profession of teacher, jotting down, in 


every ray of leisure, the thoughts and fancies with which her 
876 . 


ANN ELIZA DUPUY. Se 


brain teemed. In this way, while in her twenty-second year, 
she completed “ The Conspirator,” a work which, for historic 
interest and graceful diction, ranks among her best efforts. It 

appeared first in the “New World,” and was, several years 
after, republished by the Appletons. The story winds skillfully 
with the details of Aaron Burr’s conspiracy, and is lighted by 
many pleasing pictures of Southern life and scenery. 

In proof of Miss Dupuy’s steady application, executive 
power, and mental resource, we have only to say that, during 
the years in which her freshest hours and energies were given 
to teaching, she wrote and published the following works: 
“‘ Celeste, or the Pirate’s Daughter,” “The Separation,” “ The 
Divorce,” “The Coquette’s Punishment,’ “Florence, or the 
Fatal Vow,” “The Concealed Treasure,” and “ Ashleigh; a 
Tale of the Revoiution.” 

Since she has been able to devote her time more exclusively 
to literary pursuits, she has written “ Emma Walton, or Trials 
and Triumphs,” and “The Country Neighborhood.” These 
stories are based upon actual life, and the delineations of the 
latter, especially, are strong and spirited ; but it is in the work 
which follows these—“ The Huguenot Exiles ”—that we get the 
truest conception of Miss Dupuy’s artistic skill. A lady of intel- 
lect and culture,* who is well known to the literary circles of ° 
New Orleans as a critic, says of this book: 

“Tt is full of scenes of most absorbing interest, while it 
exhibits the elegance of style and purity of diction which 
aire among Miss Dupuy’s characteristics as a writer. It em-. 
bodies the history of the persecution which immediately pre- 
ceded and followed the revocation of the edict of Nantes, by 
which so many brave and noble subjects of Louis XIV. were 
driven from France, to seek in our western world ‘freedom to 


* An adopted daughter of Prof. Espy. 


378 | WOMEN OF THE SOUTH. 


worship God.’ In this tale the author has gracefully inter- 
woven the romantic history of her own immediate ancestor. 
As a historical novel, it may class with the best in our lan- 
guage.” ! 

This work was followed by “'The Planter’s Daughter,” a 
story of southern life, full of faithful sketches in landscape and 
portraiture, and strongly marked with the sharp contrasts which 
may, we think, be called a specialty of this writer. | 

Miss Dupuy has been also an occasional contributor to 
several leading journals of New York. Some of her most 
characteristic stories have appeared in the “ Ledger,” under the 
name of “Anna Young.” Among these, “The Lost Deeds,” 
attracted much attention. Although founded upon a baseless 
theory, the plot is well conceived, and might have been 
wrought, with equal power, into a tale of much greater length. 
It loses, indeed, somewhat in effect by its abrupt termination. 

Though circumstances have made Kentucky the nominal 
home of our author, she has passed the greater part of her life 
in Louisiana and Mississippi, where, with one or two exceptions, 
her works have been written. » | 

It is said that she is singularly free from affectations, and 
that to rare conversational powers and fine culture she unites 
‘sound judgment, and that inbred fineness which is the crowning 
grace of true womanhood. 

The accomplished writer and critic before mentioned has 
kindly favored us with a résumé of “The Planter’s Daughter,” 
from which, as bearing directly upon the specimen chapter 
which follows, we give this extract: 

“Victor, a self-indulgent young man, madly in love with 
one whom wealth alone can win, and driven to desperation by 
reverses of fortune, determined to rob a corpse of diamonds of 
immense value, which had been buried with their possessor, a 
French émigré of the old regime. He succeeds, and in exulta- 


ANN ELIZA DUPUY. 379 


tion séeks Louise to claim her promise, to be his when he has 

wealth to offer. This scene is drawn with great skill and vivid- 

ness, and is founded upon an event which actually occurred in 
the vicinity of New Orleans.” 


THE PLANTER’S DAUGHTER. 


He placed the pistol on the table within reach of his hand, and drew 
forth the last communication she had sent him. 

‘Tell me, Louise, what this production means? Have you indeed given 
up all intention of fulfilling the troth so often and so solemnly sworn? What 
do you mean by the words, ‘J know how it was obtained,’ referring to the 
independence I offered to share with you?” 

There was a violent effort to preserve his calmness, but his voice qui- 
vered with the intensity of his emotion, and his eyes seemed to her like a 
devouring flame, as he fixed them on her whitening features. 

How, Louise wished some one would come in; but no footsteps approached. 
She feared to cry out, lest the excited being before her should destroy her 
before assistance could reach her; and she read that in his face which 
assured her that he was desperate enough for any crime. 

She did not reply, and he held the lines so close to her face as almost to 
touch it, as he again demanded—‘‘ Your meaning, your meaning? I must 
know if you really are aware of all I have dared for your sake; or is ita 
pitiable ruse to afford you excuse for your most heartless and unwomanly | 
_ conduct toward me.” 

‘““T did not wish to break with you, Victor,” she pleaded. ‘‘ Your own 
acts have placed a barrier between us, as I have there stated.” 

‘“My acts? What are they? How did you know them? Speak—tell 
me, what could I do that would render me unworthy of you, false and 
hollow piece of deceit that I now know you to be. My cofscience! I have 
none, I tell you. It was buried long since in the grave of principle. I have 
become a terror and a loathing to myself, and all through you. And now 
do you fancy for one moment that I will ever permit Nevin to snatch you 
from me? Tell me what you know, or my pistol shall at once do its predes- 
tined work; its fellow is ready to release me from the consequences, and I 
have no compunction in using them.” 


380 WOMEN OF THE SOUTH. 


Again he placed his hand upon the weapon, and Louise felt that boldness 
alone could now save her. She pressed her hand upon her heart to still its 
rapid beating, and said : 

“Listen to me, Victor, and do not endeavor to frighten me thus, for I 
cannot believe that your threats are made in earnest. You have committed 
a fearful crime for my sake. I pity you; I forgive you; and oh, Victor, I 
love you still. Do not be so harsh—so cruel; you break my heart by acting 
thus.” 

At the allusion to his crime, Victor shuddered, and cast a fearful glance 
around. He spoke in a whisper, every tone of which seemed to vibrate 
with horror. 

‘““The dead gibbered around me; the vaults seemed lighted with flames 
from the Inferno; but I would not be balked. Ha! look here; see what I 
won by my perseverance.” 

He drew forth a casket from his pocket, and, opening it, the flash of 
diamonds of singular lustre and purity, was seen. A necklace of rose 
diamonds, of large size, he drew forth, and said, with a ghastly smile: 

‘See how I can afford to deck you, Louise.” 

Before she was aware of his intention, he threw it over her bare neck, 
The touch of the gems, which had so lately lain in contact with the dead, over- 
powered the little fortitude Louise retained, and she sunk back insensible on 
the crimson velvet fauteuil in which she was seated. 

Without heeding this, Victor proceeded in his task. He next drew forth - 
an ornament for the head, in the shape of a coronet; this he carefully 
placed, then clasped the rings in the ears, the bracelets on her arms, and 
then lifting the nerveless hand, he placed in it the miniature sceptre, of 
which Nevin had spoken. 

When all was done, he stood off and viewed the effect. The delicate 
and colorless features of the insensible girl, contrasted with the crimson 
background against which she reclined, looked pure as marble. Her even- 
ing dress, of a pale rose tint, was cut so as to leave the fair neck and rounded 
arms partially bared; and the blaze of the jewels in the lamp-light might, 
at a first glance, have induced one to believe that she was in grand 
toilette for some gay assemblage; but a second look at the fixed features 
and closed eyes would have startled the beholder with the conviction 
that death was only masked with this semblance of splendor. 

Victor contemplated her in silence several moments, then he kneeled 
before her, and said: 


ANN ELIZA DUPUY. 381 


‘“My queen of love and beauty, once—now my queen of death—most 
royally art thou decked for the sacrifice! Ha! ha! will not Nevin learn 
that his gems are well bestowed?—even on her to whom he would have 
given them himself. But J am beforehand with him. I have the advan- 
_ tage this time, and I mean to keep it.” 

He kissed the hand of the insensible girl, her lifeless lips, her brow, 
again and again. Then he drew from his pocket a second pistol, and 
lifting the one on the table he pointed it toward the heart of Louise. 
The other he placed where his hand could grasp it the instant he dropped 
the first. 

Then the madman paused; and fixing his eyes adoringly upon the face 
he had so worshipped, he said, in a tone of entreaty : 

“Forgive me, darling, best loved one. I take you from a world that can 
only bring sorrow to your heart, and a blight upon your loveliness. I will 
not mar your beauty, my flower of Paradise; through your heart the mes- 
senger of release shall go, and you will not even feel the pain of death.” 

He raised himself on one knee and deliberately took aim at the left side 
of the defenceless girl, who had not yet exhibited the slightest sign of 
returning consciousness. Not a muscle trembled, as he slowly raised his 
finger to touch the deadly tigger. 

In another instant Louise would have been beyond help, when a swift 
step came noiselessly over the carpet, and a firm hand dashed up the weapon, 
with the exclamation : 

‘*Madman!. What would you do?” 

Victor struggled violently, for he recognized the voice of his rival, and he 
endeavored to turn the weapon against him. Nevin wrenched his arm with 
a grasp of iron; as the pistol came in contact with the body of the hapless 
young man, it exploded, and the meditated assassin received the load in his 
own heart. 


HUGUENOT EXILES. 


M. de Montour prided himself on the beauty of his horses; and the pair 
in the carriage were spirited bays, which had not long been subjected to the 


constraint of harness. He was about to open the door to alight with his 
daughter, and walk over this dangerous place, when the horses took fright 
at some object in the road, and reared and plunged so violently that the 
driver lost all control over them. The man jumped from his seat in time to 


382 WOMEN OF THE SOUTH. 


save himself, as the unwieldy vehicle made a violent lurch toward the preci- 
pice. : ) 

The traveller, whose sudden appearance on the road had frightened them, 
threw himself from his mule, and seizing the bridle, made violent efforts to 
restrain their downward career; but the impulse already given them was too 
great. To save himself, he was compelled to release his grasp and throw him- 
self violently backward, while the unruly steeds and the heavy coach, with its 
helpless occupants, went crashing down the precipice. 

A few moments of breathless horror followed ; no cry came from below ; 
and the two men gazed oneach other with pallid cheeks. The driver at 
length said: 

“Tm afeared they are killed, but the devil himself could not a’ held them 
horses.” 

‘“Come with me,” said the stranger, a respectable-looking citizen; 
“there is a pathway down the ravine, let us look after these unhappy 
people.” 

With some difficulty they descended the precipitous path, and stood 
_ beside the shattered carriage. The horses had been too severely injured by 
the fall to move; and M. de Montour had extricated himself from the ruins 
in a stunned and bewildered condition, which rendered him oblivious even 
of the state of his daughter. 

Bertha, pale, and apparently dying, lay with her head in contact with the 
rock against which it had been dashed with such violence as to produce con- 
cussion of the brain; there was no external wound, save that her right 
hand, which she seemed instinctively to have raised to protect her face, was 
completely crushed. 

The stranger lifted her in his arms, and as the fading twilight fell upon 
her features, he recognized her. Taking the bleeding hand in his own, he 
solemnly said : 3 

‘Behold the retributive justice of God. This hand, soslately raised in 
sacrilegious outrage, will never again know its own cunning.” 

By this time the unhappy father began to recover sufficiently to under- 
stand what passed around him. With a cry of anguish he threw himself 
toward the nerveless form the stranger sustained, and took her in his own 
arms. » For the first time, for years, human feeling was aroused in the breast 
of this man who had so hardly dealt with others, and he comprehended what 
it was to suffer. In his prosperity he had forgotten that the arrows of mis- 
fortune could be launched at himself; and in his egotistic love for his daugh- 


ANN ELIZA DUPUY. 383 


ter, he had almost ceased to remember that she was of mortal mold; and 
subject, like others, to accident or death. 

‘She is not dead,” he sternly said. ‘‘ The Virgin will not permit death 
to be sent to one who this day so signally served her cause. Oh! holy 
mother of God, listen to the supplications of thy faithful follower: let thy 

saints plead for mercy to be shown to me. Save my child—save her, I pray 
. thee, and I promise a votive offering worthy of thy acceptance.” 

“Poor miserable fanatic!” exclaimed the stranger compassionately. 
“One prayer to God were worth a lifetime of such supplications. Praying 
to all the saints in the calendar carinot save your daughter, unless measures 
are taken to gain speedy assistance for her.” 

‘““ Why is not something done, then ?”’ asked the bewildered father. ‘She 
must be taken to the chateau without loss of time. Oh, what can be 
done ?”’ 

‘“‘The driver can take my mule and ride to Nismes for such assistance as 
we need, I willremain with you until it arrives.” 

The Sieur de Montour acquiesced in this arrangement, and with alacrity 
the driver obeyed the command. The energetic stranger then sought among 
the ruins of the carriage, from which he drew the cushions, and arranged them 
in such a manner as to afford a resting-place for the insensible girl. Life 
still palpitated in her frame, and lent a feeble motion to her heart, but no 
sion Of returning consciousness was yet visible, and the compassionate eye 
that scanned her features in the gathering twilight, saw that intelligence 
would never again beam from those orbs, over whose closed lids a faint pur- 
ple hue was already spreading. At length M. de Montour looked up at the 
earnest face of his companion, and asked: . 

‘“ Who are you? How did you come hither so opportunely ?” 

The stranger sternly replied : 

‘‘T am one of those who stood tamely by to-day and saw the holy temple 
of God defiled and destroyed, while I said in my heart, ‘In his own good 
time he wili avenge this sacrilegious impiety ;’ but I little expected that one 
of the prominent actors in the scene would so soon meet the retribution her 
unwomanly act merited. God forgive me for speaking thus; for she lies 
there, stricken and dying, and I, a miserable fellow worm, should not judge | 
her harshly.” . 

All the old haughtiness of M. de Montour returned as he listened, and he 
said: 

‘‘ She is not dying—she shall not die; and you were on our path—you 


384 WOMEN OF THE SOUTH. 


caused this calamity of which you dare to speak as a judgment from 
heaven.” , ) 

‘“‘T as sincerely believe it to be such, as I believe in the mercy of God. [I 
was proceeding quietly on my way, when your horses overtook me; and 
why they should have reared atthe sight of a peaceful traveller, I know not, 
unless it was for the special purpose of bringing to pass the punishment that 
surely finds its victim. Look at that hand, and then ask yourself if chance 
alone produced this catastrophe.” 

There was a stern grandeur in the manner of the speaker, and in him the 
Sieur de Montour recognized one of the many strong souls who, in those 
days, struggled against the persecutions they were compelled to bear, with 
a fanaticism equal to that which oppressed them. He replied, with ~ 
asperity : 

“Know that if death be sent to my child, I have faith to believe that the 
service performed by her this day merited being taken into heaven itself to 


receive her reward.” 


Then the anguish of the unhappy father took another phase. He had 
summoned the priests to perform the last rites of the church, and with fran- 
tic eagerness he implored the surgeon to restore consciousness to her for a 
brief space, that she might join in them. To him it was an inexpressible 
horror that she should die before extreme unction had been administered, 
When convinced that it was impossible, he made a sign to the priests to 
perform their office without delay, and the ceremony was at once com- 
menced, 

The father knelt on a cushion at the foot of the couch, with his eyes im- 
movably fastened on the features on which the seal of death was rapidly 
stamping itself. He prayed for a sign that all was well with the departing 
spirit ; miracles were of common occurrence in the church—why should not 
one be performed in his favor ? . 

The officiating priest, imbued with all the craft of his calling, was quite 
willing to lend his aid to produce such a delusion. As he leaned over the 
couch to anoint the dying girl with the holy chrism, he dexterously lifted 
the crushed hand, and held it an instant before her father. Starting back 
with an appearance of reverential awe, he said: 

‘Behold, my son! A miracle has been vouchsafed by the blessed Mother 
of God! See! that hand, which so lately was lifted in holy service to the 


ANN ELIZA DUPUY. 385 


church, is permitted to give you the assurance for which you so earnestly 
supplicate. Your daughter will receive her glorious reward.” 

Again the maimed hand sunk heavily on the coverlet, and at the same 
instant the last breath of Bertha de Montour passed from her lips. Calmed 
by this assurance, the father arose, and in the sternness of his fanatical faith, 
felt enabled to bear the sudden calamity which had overtaken him, 


25 


AMELIA B. WELBY. 


Ameria B. Copruck was born on the 3d of February, 1819, 
in the small village of St. Michael’s, in Maryland, whence she 
was removed, when an infant, to Baltimore. In or near this 
city she continued to reside until 1834, and then sought a home 
in Louisville, Kentucky, where she remained until her death. 

At the age of eighteen, she contributed her first poem to 
the ‘“ Louisville Journal,” under the name of “ Amelia.” She 
is, doubtless, much indebted to George D. Prentice, the peren- 
nial poet and wit, as well as editor, for a careful development 
of her poetic faculty, and a fair presentation to the public; yet 
the sweet flowing resonance of her verse, instinct with natural 
emotion and true womanly delicacy, caught the popular ear, 
and won its way to warm hearts, by a charm all its own. , 

There was never, perhaps, a more marked instance of purely 
native poetic facility, than we find in this writer. She had 
passed through no regular course of education or study, and 
her range of reading was neither wide nor carefully indicated ; 
yet her rhythm is faultless, her construction graceful, her style 
finished, and her imagery as fresh and varied as the grand 
natural scenery which surrounded her in childhood. _ 

She seems to have impressed the critics variously. A 
southern writer *—to whose discriminating sketch, originally 
published in a Methodist magazine at Cincinnati, we are 
indebted for our fullest knowledge of Mrs. Welby—says of her: 


* Ben Casseday. 
286 


AMELIA B. WELBY. 387 


_ “She did not reach the higher forms of art, nor did she attempt 
them. Her song was a simple measure, léarned of the trill of | 
the brooklet, of the rustle of the leaves, or of the deep, solemn 
murmur of the ocean.” Jt was Mr. Griswold’s opinion that: her 
poems showed “few indications of creative power.” “She 
walks the temple of the muses,” he writes, “with no children 
of the imagination; but her fancy is lively, discriminating, and 
informed by a minute and intelligent observation of nature. 
Her sentiment has the relation to passion which her fancy sus- 
tains to the imagination. We are sure of the presence of a 
womanly spirit, reverencing the sanctities and immunities of 
life, and sympathizing with whatever addresses the sense of - 
beauty.” While Poe, the usually clear-sighted, uncompromis- 
ing analyst, warms into unwonted enthusiasm, declaring that 
“She has nearly all the imagination of Maria del Occidente, 
with more refined taste; and nearly all the passion of Mrs. Nor- 
ton, with a nicer ear, and, what is surprising, equal art. Very 
few American poets are at all comparable with her, in the 
true poetic sense.” | 

In 1888, our author married Mr. George B. Welby, a mer- 
chant of Louisville, and a gentleman every way worthy of her. 
The only offspring of this union was a son, born two months 
before the death of Mrs. Welby, in 1852. 

The first edition of poems by this writer was published at 
Boston, in 1845—a small octavo volume, whose popularity was 
so great, that in a few months the modest young poet was 
astonished with overtures from some of the leading publishers 
of the country, for a new edition. The Appletons, proving suc- 
cessful competitors, have since issued fifteen editions, and the 
demand still continues. 

It is only in the easy, rippling current of Mrs. Welby’s cor- 
respondenee, that we get any clue to her style as a prose writer. 
The sketch to which we have already referred, furnishes us with 


388 WOMEN OF THE SOUTH. 


the following specimen, which is thus introduced: “She had 
been visited at her “residence by a party of gay masqueraders, 
among whom was an intimate friend, costumed as a Turk, and 
bearing the euphonious sobriquet of Hamet Ali Ben Khorassan. 
On the day after this visit, Mrs. Welby received from this 
pseudo pacha a note of farewell, written in the redundant style 
of the Orientals, to which she thus replied : 


Although a stranger to the graceful style of Oriental greeting, Amelia, 
the daughter of the Christian, would send to Hamet Ali Ben Khorassan, ere 
he departs from the midst of her people, a few words in token of farewell, 
and also in acknowledgment of the flowery epistle sent by the gallant Ben 
Khorassan to the ‘‘ Bulbul of this Giaour Land,” as he is pleased, in the 
polite language of his country, to designate the humblest of his admirers! 
Like the sudden splendor of a dazzling meteor was the brief sojourn of the 
noble Ben Khorassan, inthe presence of the ‘“ Bulbul.” He came before 
her uniting in his aspect the majesty of a god of old with the mien of a 
mortal—graceful in his step, winning in his mood, and terrible as an army 
with banners. The song of the ‘‘ Bulbul” was hushed; the words of greet- 
ing died on her lip; but now that the mightiest of the mighty has withdrawn . 
from her dazzled gaze the glory of his presence, the trembling ‘ Bulbul ” lifts 
her head once more, like a drooping flower oppressed by the rays of the 
noon-tide sun, and in the midst of the gloom that overshadows her, recalls 
to mind every word and look of the gallant Ben Khorassan, till her thoughts 
of him arise like stars upon the horizon of her memory, lighting up the 
gloom of his absence, and glittering upon the waters of the fountain of her 
heart, whose every murmur is attuned to the music of hismemory. But 
the bark of Hamet Ali Ben Khorassan floats upon the waters with her white 
wings spread for the clime of the Crescent. Her brilliant pennon streams 
from the strand, and the words of the ‘‘ Bulbul” must falter into a farewell. 
May the favoring gales of Paradise, fragrant as the breath of Houris, fill the 
silken sails of Ben Khorassan, and waft him onward to his native groves of 
citron and of myrtle, waking thoughts in his bosom fresh and fragrant as 
the flowers that cluster in his clime! Thus prays Amelia, the daughter of 
the Christian, and the ‘‘ Bulbul of the Giaour Land.” Farewell! 


It is a singular and interesting fact, that during the last four 


AMELIA B. WELBY. 389 


years of Mrs. Welby’s life, she ceased almost entirely to write in 
verse. As her womanhood and soulhood deepened, she perhaps 
chafed, like Mrs. Warfield, in the silken harness of rhythm, and 
was casting about for a broader outlet of utterance. Had she 
lived to define the 





‘*Sea-change 





Into something new and strange,” 


that seemed to be foreshadowed in these years of abeyance, we 
might have had her gushing, poetic nature merged, not in a 
“¢ Household of Bouverie”—only the author of the “ Legend of 
the Indian Chamber” could have created that—but in some 
romance alive with luminous revealings of herself. 

A change came; a change not only of utterance and of 
being, but a transition to a sphere, where being is full utterance, 
and utterance is always harmony. 

A poem, written by herself, in tender tribute to the memory 
of a sister poet, is her most fitting requiem : 


She has passed, like a bird from the minstrel throng, 
She has gone to the land where the lovely belong! 
Her place is hush’d by her lover’s side, 

Yet his heart is full of his fair young bride ; 

The hopes of his spirit are crush’d and bowed 

As he thinks of his love in her long white shroud ; 
For the fragrant sighs of her perfumed breath 

Were kissed from her lips by his rival—Death. 


Cold is her bosom, her thin white arms 

All mutely crossed o’er its icy charms, 

As she lies like a statue of Grecian art, 

With a marble brow and a cold, hushed heart ; 
Her locks are bright, but their gloss is hid; 
Her eye is sunk ’neath its waxen lid; 

And thus she lies in her narrow hall— 

Our fair young minstrel—the loved of all. 


° 


390 WOMEN OF THE SOUTH. 


Light as a bird’s were her springing feet, 

Her heart as joyous, her song as sweet; 

Yet never again shall that heart be stirred 

With its glad wild songs like a singing bird: 
Ne’er again shall the-strains be sung, 

That in sweetness dropped from her silver tongue ; 
The music is o’er, and Death’s cold dart 

Hath broken the spell of that free, glad heart. 


Often at eve, when the breeze is still, 

And the moon floats up by the distant hill, 

As I wander alone ’mid the summer bowers, 

And wreathe my locks with the sweet wild flowers; 
I will think of the time when she lingered there, 
With her mild blue eyes, and her long, fair hair ; 

I will treasure her name in my bosom-core ; 

But my heart is sad—I can sing no more. 


THE GREEN MOSSY BANK WHERE THE BUTTER-CUPS GREW. 


Oh, my thoughts are away where my infancy flew, 
Near the green mossy bank where the butter-cups grew, 
Where the bright silver fountain eternally played, 

First laughing in sunshine, then singing in shade ; 
There oft in my childhood I’ve wandered in play, 
Flinging up the cool drops of the light-falling spray, 
Till my small naked feet were all bathed in bright dew, 
As I played on the bank where the butter-cups grew. 


How softly that green bank sloped down from the hill 

To the spot where the fountain grew suddenly still! 

How cool was the shadow the long branches gave, 

As they hung from the willow and dipped in the wave. 
And then each pale lily, that slept on the stream, 

Rose and fell with the wave, as if stirred by a dream! 
While my home ’mid the vine-leaves rose soft on my view, 
As I played on the bank where the butter-cups grew. 


AMELIA B. WELBY. 


The beautiful things! how I watched them unfold, 

Till they lifted their delicate vases of gold! 

Oh, never a spot since those days have I seen 

With leaves of such freshness and flowers of such sheen! 
How glad was my spirit! for then there was naught 

To burden its wing, save some beautiful thought 

Breaking up from its depths with each wild wind that blew 
O’er the green mossy bank where the butter-cups grew. 


The paths I have trod I would quickly retrace, 

Could I win back the gladness, that looked from my face 
As I cooled my warm lip in that fountain, I love 

With a spirit as pure as the wing of a dove— 

Could I wander again where my forehead was starr’d 
With the beauty that dwelt in my bosom unmarvr’d, 
And, calm as a child in the starlight and dew, 

Fall asleep on the bank where the butter-cups grew. 


MUSINGS. 


I wandered out one summer-night, 
’Twas when my years were few, 

The wind was singing in the light, 
And I was singing too; 

The sunshine lay upon the hill, 
The shadow in the vale, 

And here and there a leaping rill 
Was laughing on the gale. 


One fleecy cloud upon the air 
Was all that met my eyes; 

It floated like an angel there 
Between me and the skies: 

I clapped my hands and warbled wild, 
As here and there I flew, 

For | was but a careless child 
And did as children do. 


oOt 


392 


WOMEN OF THE SOUTH. 


The waves came dancing o’er the sea 
In bright and glittering bands ; 
Like little children wild with glee, 
They linked their dimpled hands— 
They linked their hands, but, ere I caught 
Their sprinkled drops of dew, 
They kissed my feet, and quick as thought, 
Away the ripples flew. 


The twilight hours, like birds, flew by, 
As lightly and as free; 

Ten thousand stars were in the sky, 
Ten thousand on the sea; 

For every wave with dimpled face, 
That leaped upon the air; * 

Had caught a star in its embrace, 
And held it trembling there. 


The young moon too, with upturned sides, 
Her mirrored beauty gave, 
And as a bark at anchor rides, 
She rode upon the wave; 
The sea was like the heaven above, 
As perfect and as whole, 
Save that it seemed to thrill with love 
As thrills the immortal soul. 


The leaves, by spirit-voices stirred, 
Made murmurs on the air, 

Low murmurs that my spirit heard 
And answered with a prayer; 

For twas upon that dewy sod, 
Beside the moaning seas, 

I learned at first to worship God 
And sing such strains as these. 


AMELIA B. WELBY. 


The flowers, all folded to their dreams, 
Where bowed in slumber free 

By breezy hills and murmuring streams, 
Where’er they chanced to be; 

No guilty tears had they to weep, 
No sins to be forgiven ; 

They closed their leaves and went to sleep 
*Neath the blue eye of heaven. 


No costly robes upon them shone, 
No jewels from the seas, 

Yet Solomon, upon his throne, 
Was ne’er arrayed like these ; 
And just as free from guilt and art, 
Were lovely human flowers, 
Ere sorrow set her bleeding heart 

On this fair world of ours. 


J heard the laughing wind behind 
A-playing with my hair ; 

The breezy fingers of the wind— 
How cool and moist they were! 

I heard the night-bird warbling o’er 
Its soft enchanting strain ; 

I never heard such sounds before, 
And never shall again. 


Then wherefore weave such strains as these 
And sing them day by day, 
- When every bird upon the breeze 
Can sing a sweeter lay! 
I’d give the world for their sweet art, 
The simple, the divine— 
I’d give the world to melt one heart 
As they have melted mine. 


393 


394 


WOMEN OF THE SOUTH. 


TO THE SKY-LARK. 


Thon little bird, thou lov’st to dwell 
Beneath the summer leaves! 


‘The sunlight round thy mossy cell 


A golden halo weaves ; 
And the sweet dews, where’er we pass, 
Like living diamonds gem the grass, 
And round the mossy eaves. 
The twittering swallow circling flies, 
As happy as the laughing skies, 


Soft as a bride, the rosy dawn 
From dewy sleep doth rise, 
And, bathed in blushes, hath withdrawn 
The mantle from her eyes; 
And, with her orbs dissolved in dew, 
Bends like an angel softly through 
The blue-pavilioned skies. 
Then up, and pour thy mellow lay, 
To greet the young and radiant day! 


Hark! now with low and fluttering start, 
The sky-lark soars above, 

And from her full melodious heart 
She pours her strains of love; 

And now her quivering wings fling back 

The golden light that floods her track, 
Now scarcely seems to move, 

But floats awhile on waveless wings, 

Then soars away, and, soaring, sings. 


Bird of the pure and dewy morn! 
How soft thy heavenward lay 

Floats np, where light and life are born 
Around the rosy day! 


AMELIA B. WELBY. 


And, as the balm that fills the hour 

Lies soft upon each waving flower, 
The happy wind at play 

Tells, as its voice goes laughing by, 

The lark is singing in the sky. 


When shall thy fearless wing find rest, 
Bird of the dewy hours ? 

When wilt thou seek thy little nest, 
Close hid among the flowers? 

Not till the bright clouds, one by one, 

Are marshalled round the setting sun, 
In heaven’s celestial bowers, 

Shall the old forest round thee fling 

Its mournful shades, O lonely thing! 


Lonely! and did I call thee lone? 
'Twas but a careless word: 


The round blue heaven is all thine own, 


O free and happy bird! 
Wherever laughs a singing rill, 
Or points to heaven a verdant hill, 
Thy waving wing hath stirred ; 
For all sweet things, where’er they be, 
Are like familiar friends to thee. 


Could I, O living lute of heaven ! 
But learn to act thy part, 
And use the gift so freely given, 
_ That floods my inmost heart ; 
Each morn, my melting strains of love 
Should rise like thine to Him above, 
Who made thee what thou art, 
And spread abroad each waving tree, 
For thee, O little bird! for thee. 


395 


396 


WOMEN OF THE SOUTH. 


And shall the poet envy thee, 
Bird of the quivering wing, 
Whose soul immortal, swift, and free, 
Should ever soar and sing? 
Predestined for a loftier flight, 
The spirit, filled with heavenly light, 
From this cold earth shall spring, 
And soar where thou canst never roam, 
Bird of the blue and breezy dome. 


Oh! if our hearts were never stirred, 
By harsher sounds than these— 
The low, sweet singing of a bird, 
The murmur of the breeze— 
How soft would glide our fleeting hours, 
Blessed as the sunshine and the flowers, 
And calm as summer seas! 
Linked hand in hand with Love and Hope, 
We'd wander down life’s flowery slope. 


THE FREED BIRD. 


Thy cage is opened, bird! too well I love thee 
To bar the sunny things of earth from thee; 
A whole broad heaven of blue lies calm above thee, 
The green-wood waves beneath, and thou art free ; 
These slender wires shall prison thee no more— 
Up, bird! and ’mid the clouds thy thrilling music pour. 


Away! away! the laughing waters, playing, 

Break on the fragrant shore in ripples blue, 
And the green leaves unto the breeze are laying 

Their shining edges, fringed with drops of dew ; 
And, here and there, a wild flower lifts its head 
Refreshed with sudden life from many a sunbeam shed. 


AMELIA B. WELBY 597 


How sweet thy voice will sound! for o’er yon river 
The wing of silence, like a dream, is laid, 

And naught is heard save where the wood-boughs quiver, 
Making rich spots of trembling light and shade. 

And a new rapture thy wild spirit fills, 

For joy is on the breeze, and morn upon the hills. 


% 


Now, like the aspen, plays each quivering feather 
Of thy swift pinion, bearing thee along, 

Up, where the morning stars once sang together, 
To pour the fullness of thine own rich song; 

And now thou’rt mirrored to my dazzled view, 

A little dusky speck amid a world of blue. 


Yet I will shade mine eye and still pursue thee, 

As thou dost melt in soft ethereal air, 
Till angel-ones, sweet bird, will bend to view thee, 

And cease their hymns awhile thine own to share ; 
And there thou art, with light clouds round thee furled, 
Just poised beneath yon vault, that arches o’er the world. 


A free wild spirit unto thee is given, 
Bright minstrel of the blue celestial deme! 
For thou wilt wander to yon upper heaven, 
And bathe thy plumage in the sunbeam’s home; 
And soaring upward from thy dizzy height 
On free and fearless wing, be lost to human sight. 


Lute of the summer clouds! whilst thou art singing 
Unto thy Maker thy soft matin hymn, 

My own mild spirit, from its temple springing, 
Would freely join thee in the distance dim ; 

But I can only gaze on thee and sigh, 

With heart upon my lip, bright minstrel of the sky ! 


398 WOMEN OF THE SOUTH. 


And yet, sweet bird! bright thoughts to me are given 
mAs many as the clustering leaves of June; 
And my young heart is like a harp of heaven, 
Forever strung unto some pleasant tune; 
And my soul burns with wild poetic fire, 
Though simple are my strains, and simpler still my lyre. 


And.now, farewell! the wild wind of the mountain 
And the blue streams alone my strains have heard ; 

And it is well, for from my heart’s deep fountain 
They flow, uncultured, as thine own, sweet bird! 

For my free thoughts have ever spurned control, 

Since this heart held a wish, and this frail form a soul! 


WHEN: SOFT STARS. “4 « 


When soft stars are peeping © 
Through the pure azure sky 
And southern gales sweeping 
Their warm breathing by, 
Like sweet music pealing 
Far o’er the blue sea, 
There come o’er me stealing 
Sweet memories of thee. 


The bright rose when faded, 
Flings forth o’er its tomb 

Its velvet. leaves laded ; 
With silent perfume: 

Thus round me will hover 
In grief or in glee, 

Till life’s dream be over, 
Sweet memories of thee. 


As a sweet lute, that lingers 
In silence alone, 

Unswept by light fingers, 
Scarce murmurs a tone, 


AMELIA B. WELBY. 399 


My young heart resembled 
That lute, light and free, 
Till o’er its chords trembled, 
Those memories of thee. 


THE PRESENCE OF GOD. 


O Thou, who fling’st so fair a robe 
Of clouds around the hills untrod— 
Those mountain-pillars of the globe, 
Whose peaks sustain thy throne, O God! 
All glittering round the sunset skies, 
Their trembling folds are lightly furled, 
As if to shade from mortal eyes 
The glories of yon upper world ; 
There, while the evening star upholds 
In one bright spot their purple folds, 
My spirit lifts its silent prayer, 
For Thou, the God of love, art there. 


The summer flowers, the fair, the sweet, 
Upspringing freely from the sod, 

~ In whose soft looks we seem to meet, 
At every step, Thy smiles, O God! 

The humblest soul their sweetness shares, 
They bloom in palace-hall, or cot— 

Give me, O Lord! a heart like theirs, 
Contented with my lowly lot! 

Within their pure ambrosial bells, 

In odors sweet Thy Spirit dwells ; 

Their breath may seem to scent the air— 

Tis Thine, O God! for thou art there. 


List! from yon casement low and dim 

What sounds are these, that fill the breeze? 
It is the peasant’s evening hymn 

Arrests the fisher on the seas— 


400. 


WOMEN OF THE SOUTH. 


The old man leans his silver hairs 

Upon his light suspended oar, 
Until those soft delicious airs 

Have died like ripples on the shore. 
Why do his eyes in softness roll? 
What melts the manhood from his soul? 
His heart is filled with peace and prayer, 
For Thou, O God! art with him there. 


The birds among the summer-blooms 
Pour forth to Thee their strains of love, 

When, trembling on uplifted plumes, 
They leave the earth and soar above; 

We hear their sweet familiar airs 
Where’er a sunny spot is found ; 

How lovely is a life like theirs, 
Diffusing sweetness all around! - 

From clime to clime, from pole to pole, 

Their sweetest anthems softly roll, 

Till, melting on the realms of air, 

Thy still small voice seems whispering there. 


The stars, those floating isles of light, 
Round which the clouds unfurl their sails, 


. Pure as a woman’s robe of white 


That trembles round the form it veils, 
They touch the heart as with a spell, 
Yet set the soaring fancy free, 
And O how sweet the tales they tell! 
They tell of peace, of love, and Thee! 
Each raging storm that wildly blows, 
Each balmy gale that lifts the rose, 
Sublimely grand, or softly fair, 
They speak of Thee, for Thou art there. 


The spirit oft oppressed with doubt, 

May strive to cast Thee from its thought, 
But who can shut thy presence out, 

Thou mighty Guest that com’st unsought! 


AMELIA B. WELBY. AO] 


In spite of all our cold resolves, 

Whate’er our thoughts, where’er we be, 
Still magnet-like the heart revolves, 

And points, all trembling, up to Thee; 
We cannot shield a troubled breast 
Beneath the confines of the blessed, 
Above, below, on earth, in air, 

For Thou the living God art there. 


Yet, far beyond the clouds outspread, 
Where soaring fancy oft hath been, 
There is a land where Thou hast said 
The pure of heart shall enter in ; 
In those far realms, so calmly bright, 
How many a loved and gentle one 
Bathes its soft plumes in living light 
That sparkles from Thy radiant throne! 
There souls, once soft and sad as ours, 
Look up and sing ’mid fadeless flowers— 
They dream no more of grief and care, 
For Thou, the God of peace, art there. 


THOU CANST NOT FORGET ME. 


Thou canst not forget me, for memory will fling 
Her light o’er oblivion’s dark sea; 

And wherever thou roamest, a something will cling 
To thy bosom that whispers of me ; 

Thongh the chords of thy spirit I now may not sweep, 
Of my touch they’ll retain a soft thrill, 

Like the low, under-tone of the mournful-voiced deep, 
When the wind that has swept it is still. 


The love that is kept in the beauty of trust, 
Cannot pass like the foam from the seas, 
Or a mark that the finger hath traced in the dust, 
When ’tis swept by the breath of the breeze ; 
: 26 


402 WOMEN OF THE SOUTH. 


They tell me, my love, thou wilt calmly resign, 
Yet I know, e’en while listening to them, 

Thou wilt sigh for the heart that was linked unto thine 
As a rose-bud is linked to its stem. 


Thou canst not forget me, too long thou hast flung 
Thy spirit’s soft pinion o’er mine; 

Too deep was the promise, that round my lips clung, 
As they softly responded to thine: 

In the hush of the twilight, beneath the blue skies, 
My presence will mantle thy soul, 

And a feeling of softness will rush to thine eyes, 
Too deep for thy manhood’s control. 


Thou mayst roam to thine own isle of beauty and fame, 
Far, far from the land of the free ; 

Yet, each wind that floats round thee will murmur the name 
That is softer than music to thee ; . 

And when round thee darkly misfortunes shall crowd, 
Thow lt think, like the beautiful form 

Of the rainbow, that arches the thick tempest-cloud, 
My love would have brightened the storm, 


Thou canst not forget me—the passion, that dwelt 
In the depth of thy soul, could not die, 
With the memory of all thou hast murmured and felt, 
In thy bosom ’twill slumbering lie; 
Thou mayst turn to another, and wish to forget, 
But the wish will not bring thee repose, 
For ah! thou wilt find that the thorn of regret 
Will be linked with the sweets of the rose. 


ON ENTERING THE MAMMOTH CAVE. 


Hush! for my heart-blood curdles as we enter 
To glide in gloom these shadowy realms about ; 
Oh! what a scene !—the round globe to its centre, 
To form this awful cave, seems hollowed out! 


AMELIA B. WELBY: 403 


Yet pause—no mystic word hath yet been spoken 
To win us entrance to this awful sphere— 
A whispered prayer must be our watchword token, 
And peace—like that around us—peace unbroken, 
The passport here. 


And now farewell, ye birds and blossoms tender, 
Ye glistening leaves by morning dews impearled, 
And you, ye beams that light with softened splendor 
The glimmering glories of yon outer world! 
While thus we paused these silent arches under, 
To you and yours a wild farewell we wave, 
For oh! perhaps this awful spot may sunder 
Our hearts from all we love—this world of wonder 
May be our grave. 


And yet farewell! the faintly flickering torches 
| Light our lone footsteps o’er the silent sod; 
And now all hail, ye everlasting arches, 

Ye dark dominions of an unseen God! 
Who would not for this sight the bliss surrender 

Of all the beauties of yon sunny sphere, 
And break the sweetest ties, however tender, 
To be the witness of the silent splendor 

That greets us here! 


Ye glittering caves, ye high o’erhanging arches, 
A pilgrim-band we glide amid your gloom, 
With breathless lips and high uplifted torches, 
All fancifully decked in cave-costume ; 
Far from the day’s glad beams, and songs and flowers, 
We’ve come with spell-touched hearts, ye countless caves, 
To glide enchanted, for a few brief hours, 
Through the calm beauty of your awful bowers 
And o’er your waves! 


Beautiful cave! that all my soul entrances, 
Known as the Wonder of the West so Jong, 

Oh ’twere a fate beyond my wildest fancies, 
Could I but shrine you now, as such, in song! 


404 


WOMEN OF THE SOUTH. 


But ’tis in- vain—the untaught child of Nature, 

I cannot vent the thoughts that through me flow, 
Yet none the less is graved thine every feature 
Upon the wild imaginative creature 

That hails younow! — 


Palace of Nature! with a poet’s fancies 
I’ve ofttimes pictured thee in dreams of. bliss, 
And glorious scenes were given to my glances, 
But never gazed I on a scene like this ! 
Compared with thine, what are the awful wonders 
Of the deep, fathomless, unbounded sea? 
Or the storm-cloud, whose lance of lightning sunders 
The solid oak ?—or even thine awful thunders, 
Niagara! 


Hark! hear ye not those echoes ringing after 

Our gliding steps—my spirit faints with fear— 
Those mocking tones, like subterranean laughter— 

Or does the brain grow wild with wandering here? 
There may be spectres wild, and forms appalling, 

Our wandering eyes, where’er we rove, to greet— 
Methinks I hear their low sad voices calling 
Upon us now, and far away the falling 

Of phantom feet. 


The glittering dome, the arch, the towering column, 
Are sights that greet us now on every hand; 

And all so wild—so strange—so sweetly solemn— 
So like one’s fancies formed of fairy-land ! 

And these then are your works, mysterious powers! 
Your spells are o’er, around us, and beneath, 

These opening aisles, these crystal fruits and flowers, 

And glittering grots, and high-arched beauteous bowers, 

As still as death. 


But yet lead on! perhaps than this fair vision, 
Some lovelier yet in darkling distance lies— 

Some cave of beauty, like those realms elysian 
That ofttimes open on poetic eyes! 


AMELIA B. WELBY., 405 


Some spot, where led by fancy’s sweet assistance, 
Our wandering feet o’er silvery sands may stray, 
Where prattling waters urge with soft resistance 
Their wavelets on, till lost in airy distance, 
And far away! 


Oft the lone Indian o’er these low-toned waters 
Has bent perhaps his swarthy brow to lave! 
It seems the requiem of their dark-eyed daughters— 
Those sweet wild notes that wander o’er the wave! 
Hast thou no relic of their ancient glory, 
No legend, lonely cavern! linked with thine? 
No tale of love—no wild romantic story 
Of some warm heart whese dreams were transitory \ 
And sweet as mine? 


it must be so! the thought your spell enhances— 
Yet why pursue this wild, romantic dream ? : 
The heart, afloat upon its fluttering: fancies, 
Would lose itself in the bewildering theme! 
And yet, ye waters! still I list your surging, 
And ever and anon I seem to view, 
jn fancy’s eye, some Indian maid emerging 
Through the deep gloom, and o’er your waters urging 
Her light canoe. 
* 
Oh silent cave! amid the elevation 


Of lofty thought could I abide with thee, 

My soul’s sad shrine, my heart’s lone habitation, 

Forever and forever thou shouldst be! 

Here into song my every thought I’d render, 

And thou—and thou alone—shouldst be my theme, 
Far from the weary world’s delusive splendor, 
Would not my lonely life be all one tender 

Delicious dream ? 


Yes, though no other form save mine might hover 
In these lone halls, no other whisper roll 
Along those airy domes that arch me over, 
Save gentle Echo’s, sister of my soul! 


406 


WOMEN OF THE SOUTH. 


Yet, ‘neath these domes, whose spell of beauty weighs me, 
"My heart would evermore in bliss abide— 
No sorrow to depress, no hope to raise me, 
Here would I ever dwell, with none to praise me 
And none to chide! 


Region of caves and streams! and must I sever 
My spirit from your spell? ’Twere bliss to stray 
The happy rover of your realms forever, 
And yet, farewell forever and for aye! 
I leave you now, yet many a sparkling token 
Within your cool recesses I have sought 
To treasure up with fancies still unspoken— 
Till from these quivering heart-strings, Death hath broken 
The thread of thought! 


LENE ASD BOSE: 


Mrs. Du Bose is the eldest daughter of Rev. William 
Richards, of Beaufort District, S.C. She was born in the year 
1828, in a village in Oxfordshire, England. Soon after her 
birth, the family came to this country and settled in Georgia, 
removing thence in a few years to their present home, in 
South Carolina. | 

In 1848, she married Mr. Charles W. Du Bose, an accom- 
plished gentleman, and leading lawyer, of Sparta, Georgia, 
where, in the midst of a refined and cultivated people, they at 
once set up their household gods. In their “ Willow Cottage ”— 
the coziest of homes, embowered in the rich flowering trees of 
that region—their family of brave boys is growing daily, 
under a discipline which promises the manliest and worthiest 
life. | | 

Mrs. Du Bose’s education, received in our northern cities, 
was made most successfully available in several years’ experi- 
ence as teacher in the home of her adoption. 

Her love of letters was indicated at a very early age, and 
had circumstances thrown her into the field as a professional 
contestant for literary honors, she must have achieved distinc- 
tion. As it is, her productions have come to us, for the most 
part, in journals and magazines, only as they have been sug- 
gested or solicited, and generally under the name of “ Leila 
Cameron.” Many of her best poems were contributed to the 


“Southern Literary Gazette,” formerly published in ‘Charles- 
405 


408 | WOMEN OF THE SOUTH. 


ton, and edited by her brother, Rev. Wm. C. Richards, who has 
since removed to Providence, R. I. She was also a favorite cor- 
respondent of the “ Orion Magazine,” of Georgia, and it was 
for this paper that she wrote the popular prize poem, 
“ Wachulla” a fine spirited description of a famous fountain in 
Florida. 

In 1858, her first published volume was ieee from the 
press of Sheldon & Co., New York. This is an interesting 
prose story for the young, entitled “The Pastor’s Household.” 
It displays a narrative and dramatic power, indicative of skill 
and resource in this difficult department of literary composi- 
tion. It is to be hoped that our “little people” may be made 
happy by many other genial and wholesome books from this 
writer’s pen. 

As the child of a gifted and highly educated parentage, and 
.amember of a large family circle, all remarkable for sesthetic 
proclivities, Mrs. Du Bose has enjoyed unusual facilities for — 
early and thorough cultivation. One of her, brothers—to 
whom we have already referred—is not only known as the 
editor of a popular southern journal, but as the author of a. 
happily designed work, called “The Shakspeare Calendar ;” while 
another brother, T. Addison Richards, of New York, has won 
distinction, not only as an artist and poet, but as the efficient 
principal of the “ School of Design for Women,” which is doing 
a noble work within the walls of the Cooper Institute. 

Combining, as Mrs. Du Bose does, the most delicate tastes 
with equal earnestness of character, and a large religious 
element, she, could not fail to exert in any community the 
healthful influence, which is so essentially felt and confessed 
throughout the little village in which her lot is cast. We see 
here—as we see nowhere so truly as in southern households—the 
rare union of unpretending domestic love with artistic capacity 
and achievement. 


KATE A. DU BOSE. 409 


THE PASTOR’S HOUSEHOLD. 


At the desk in front of our hero, sat a boy, whose pale, sickly countenance, 
and melancholy air, had from the first excited his warmest sympathies. 
Many acts of kindness had endeared him to the poor lad, whose threadbare 
apparel stamped him as the child of poverty, and whose constitutional weak- 
ness, to which was added a crippled limb, put it out of the question for him 
to join in the more active sports of the boys, and sometimes even to walk 
without great pain and difficulty. At such times, Claude’s arm was ever 
ready to assist, and often would he leave a fine game of ball, or an entertain- 
ing book, to enliven a dull hour for the poor crippled lad. . 

‘“Lame Jimmy,” as everybody called him, was an orphan, thrown help- 
less and friendless upon the charity of Dr. Carlisle, who, having furnished 
him a place at his table, and in his school-room, gave himself no further 
trouble about the child, whose scanty wardrobe bore evidence to the neglect 
with which he was treated. This was eked out by various trifling services 
performed for the elder boys—copying exercises, and the like—which, to 
their credit, were frequently liberally rewarded. Sometimes, a bundle of 
shoes and clothing was given to him by some lad who had outgrown them; 
and in various ways poor Lame Jimmy contrived to appear always neat, 
though his wardrobe was very seldom amply supplied. . 

He was a meek, silent boy, evidently feeling deeply the slights of his. com- 
panions—but never complaining—and always grateful for kindness, and 
truthful and upright in every act. A look of patient suffering ever dwelt 
upon his pale features, giving. them an expression unfitted to his years. 

But this boy, with all his physical and worldly disadvantages, possessed 
a mind of no ordinary cast. Without any apparent effort, he mastered the 
most difficult studies; and other boys, who mocked at his poverty and 
treated him with disdain, hesitated not to apply to Lame Jimmy when- 
ever there was a hard sentence to construe, or a knotty problem to 
solve. 3 

But, after awhile, Jimmy flagged in his progress—his head often dropped 
wearily on his, desk, and his hollow cough broke more frequently the still- 
ress of the school-room. The boys were so accustomed to his limping step 
and painful cough, that it elicited no attention ; but Claude, whose hgart was 
ever open to the distress or suffering of others, remarked the increased 


A10 WOMEN OF THE SOUTH. 


illness of the boy with much concern. He mentioned it to Percy, who had 
also been kind to the poor fellow, but he said, ‘‘Oh, Lame Jimmy is often 
so; but he will be better after awhile.” 

Claude had been now nearly a year at Dr. Carlisle’s school, and only 
once during that time had he visited Lynn for a few days; but now the 
annual examination was approaching, to be followed by a vacation of © 
several weeks. Every year a number of students passed from the institu- 
tion, either to enter upon the business of the great world, or to be admitted | 
to college halls; and a large assembly of ladies and gentlemen met to listen 
to the original addresses prepared for the occasion. 

This was a great day with all, and Claude looked forward to it with a 
. beating heart and a kindling cheek; for with the other guests would come 
his uncle and little Nell, now entering her tenth year. Added to his own 
eager desire to see them, was the wish that Percy should know the friends 
he so dearly loved. a 

Ambitious of distinguishing himself in their eyes, the ardent boy pored 
over his books, early and late. Indeed, Percy had fairly to drag him away 
for necessary recreation. A short time before the closing day, he threw 
down book and pencil one evening, and, wearied with study, his brow pale 
and his cheek burning, he passed hastily through the common hall to join 
the boys, whose merry voices resounded from the playground. Bounding 
lightly down the steps, exhilarated by the cool breeze that played so grate- 
fully on his throbbing temples, he caught the plaintive tones of Lame Jimmy, 
and turning suddenly, saw him standing at the back entrance, struggling to 
release a small volume which he held from the rude grasp of Andrews. 

‘“‘Don’t—please don’t,” said the meek tones; ‘it was my mother’s, and 
she is dead.” 

‘Give it up, boy—confound you!—give it up, I say, or by Jupiter (ll 
show you stars in the day-time !” 

‘Oh, please don’t, Andrews; it’s everything I’ve got in the world, and 
you said you would throw it into the duck-pond, to spite Claude Villars; 
you may kill me, but you shan’t have it.” 

‘¢ And so I will spite him, a canting hypocrite. Don’t you resist me, you 
pitiful puppy! By George! Pll teach you better manners;” and uttering a 
dreadful oath, he snatched the volume from the fragile grasp, and threw it 
into a trough of dirty water that stood near. Then, flushed with passion, he 
turned to the lad, who stood aghast and trembling at his violence, and dealt 
him a blow which felled him to the ground. 


KATE A. DU BOSE. Atul 


Tn an instant Claude confronted him, his noble face flaming with indig- 
nation. . 

‘Mean, cowardly tyrant!” he cried, ‘‘ how dare you to strike one whom 
God has singled out for pity? Take that to teach you how to treat the weak 
_and helpless!” and summoning all his strength, he struck him full in the face 
with his clenched fist. 

‘Hurrah for Claude! Don’t his eyes flash ;” ‘“‘ Bravo! Villars, give it to 
him again ;” ‘‘ He’s roused the tiger at last,” shouted half a dozen voices, as 
little knot of boys gathered around ; but Claude, his sudden passion expended, 
folded his arms, and calmly waited the approach of his antagonist, who, 
almost blind with passion, came rushing toward him. Agile as a cat, Claude 


iW sprang lightly aside and escaped the blow. Before the bully could collect 


himself for a new assault, the form of Dr. Carlisle appeared, and his stern 
voice silenced the clamor of tongues. 

‘‘How now, ygung gentlemen! is my house a fit place for disgraceful 
broils? Claude Villars, do I see you engaged in an affair like this?” 

Claude raised his clear eyes undauntedly, but made no reply. For an 
instant the doctor eyed the group in stern silence. Jimmy had by this time 
risen to his feet, and stood at Claude’s side, the tears running down his pale 
cheeks, and his large, mournful eyes (the only feature that redeemed his 
positive ugliness of face), fixed appealingly on the wrathful countenance 
‘before them. At length the doctor spoke. 

‘¢ Villars, what is the meaning of this, and where did Andrews get that 
black eye? JI demand an explanation.” 

‘“‘T have none to make, sir,” replied Claude quietly, yet respectfully. 

“He gave it to me,” muttered Andrews. 

‘¢Shame! shame!” passed whisperingly through the crowd of boys. 

Again the doctor regarded them silently, and seeing the words quivering 
on Jimmy’s pale lips, nodded kindly, saying: 

‘© Speak on, my boy ; I see you have something to say.” 

Thus encouraged, he poured forth warmly the story of his wrongs, and 
Claude’s retaliation ; treating lightly his own sufferings, but eloquently 
defending his young protector. But alas for the poor boy! as he thus plain- 
tively told his tale, his face turned deadly pale, and a small stream of blood 
trickled from his thin lips on his old worn jacket; fainting, he would again 
have fallen, but for the supporting arms of Claude, who leaned anxiously 
over his drooping burden. 

“Oarry him to bed at once,” said the doctor, much shocked. ‘ Young 


412 WOMEN OF THE SOUTH. 


gentlemen, I will see you in my study,” and in a few minutes the playground 
exhibited its usual quiet appearance. 

For many days poor Jimmy was extremely ill; at length he began slowly 
to recover, and a day or two before the close of the term, walked feebly 
downstairs. Andrews had been expelled from school, but, through the 
earnest intercession of Claude, his punishment was mitigated, and he was . 
spared the public disgrace attendant upon expulsion. After two weeks, he 
was again seated at his desk, humbled and quiet, if not repentant. 

. “ You’ve done for Andrews, Claude,” said Percy, laughing, as they 
passed him in the playground the day before examination. ‘I don’t think 
he will ever molest you again; you ‘heaped coals of fire on his head,’ by 
saving him from public disgrace, and then capped the climax by correcting 
his theme when you were so desperately busy yourself.” 

“Pho! that was nothing; but I do think Andrews will be a better fel- 
low; he seems heartily ashamed of his cowardly treaynent of poor Jim. 
What do you think? he came upstairs yesterday with a beautiful new Bible, 
and begged Jimmy to accept of it in token of forgiveness for his conduct.” 

‘* And how was it received ?” 

“Oh, you know Jimmy is meekness itself; I do believe he will merit the 
reward of the third beatitude—‘ For. they shall inherit the earth’—if any 
one does. He put out his poor thin hand, and took the Bible with a patient 
smile; but when we were alone again, he said to me, with tears swelling in 
his large eyes, ‘ This can never be to me what the other was—my own dear 
mother’s Bible!’ ” 


WACHULLA. 


Chief among the attractions of Tallahassee are the many beautiful springs found in the vicinity. 
Ten miles from the city is a famous fountain, called Wachulla. It is an immense limestone basin, 
as yet unfathomed in the centre, with waters as transparent as crystal, 


Fountain of beauty! on my vision breaking, 

How springs my heart thy varied charms to greet, 
While thoughts of loveliness within me waking, 

Fill all my being with their influence sweet. 
Gazing on thee, my spirit’s wild commotion 

Is hushed beneath some mighty magic spell— 
Till thrilling with each new and strange emotion, 
No feelings but of high and pure devotion 

Within me dwell. 


KATE A. DU BOSE. A413 


Wachulla, beauteous spring! thy crystal waters 
Reflect the loveliness of southern skies; 
And oft methinks the dark-haired Indian daughters 
Bend o’er thy silver depths with wondering eyes; 
From forest glade the swarthy chief emerging, 
Delighted paused, thy matchless charms to view; 
Then to thy flower-gemmed border slowly verging, 
I see him o’er thy placid bosom urging 
His light canoe! 


Break not the spell that wraps this beauteous vision, 
In the enchantment of some fairy dream; 
Methinks I wander in these realms elysian, 
Which on poetic fancies sometimes gleam. 
Round me,the dim-arched forest proudly towers, 
Seeming those light and floating clouds to kiss ; 
Oh, let me linger for a few brief hours 
By this enchanted fount—these wild-wood bowers, 
To dream of bliss. 


With the bright crimson of the maple twining, 
The fragrant bay its peerless chaplet weaves; 
And where magnolias in their pride are shining, 
The broad palmetto spreads its fan-like leaves: 
Far down the forest aisles, where sunbeams quiver 
The fairest flowers their rainbow hues combine; 
And pendent o’er the swiftly-flowing river, 
The shadows of the graceful willow shiver, 
In glad sunshine. 


Bright-plumaged birds their gorgeous hues enwreathing 
Their amorous tunes to listening flowers repeat ; 
Which, in reply, their sweetest incense breathing, 
Pour on the silent air their perfume sweet ; 
From tree to tree the golden jasmine creeping, 
Hangs its light bells on every slender spray; 
And in each fragrant chalice slily peeping, 
The humming-bird its odorous store is reaping, 
The livelong day. 


A414 WOMEN OF THE SOUTH. 


Nature has here no wilifal mood unfolded, 
Her choicest stores the wilderness to deck; 
And forms of rare and perfect beauty molded, 
Where no rude hand her beauty dares to check. 
How could I sit, and watch the waters glancing 
In the calm beauty of these cloudless skies ; 
My vivid fancy every charm enhancing, 
And sight and sound my senses all entrancing, 
Till daylight dies.. 


How o’er the misty past my thoughts would ponder, 
When sad and lone beside Wachulla’s spring, 
The red man, flying from his foes, would wander, 
And to the wave his heart-wrung murmurs fling. 
Oppression stern his free-born soul enthralling, 
He flies for shelter to those wild-wood haunts— 
And on the spirit of his loved ones calling, 
While murmuring voices on his ear are falling, 
This descant chaunts. 


“ Great Spirit of our race! hast thou forsaken 

Thy favored children in their hour of need? 
Their wailing voice Wachulla’s echoes waken— 

Will not the spirit of their Father heed? 
Sunshine and joy our own loved dells are flushing, 

But ’mid their charms the red man wanders lone; 
He hears the free winds through the forest rushing, 
He sees Wachulla’s gladsome waters gushing, 

Yet hears no tone!” 


Alas, sad warrior! by these silver waters 

No more shall gather thy ill-fated band ; 
Thy hunters bold, thy dark-eyed lovely daughters, 

Long since have sought their own loved spirit land. 
Yet still methinks I hear their voices sighing 

In the soft breeze that blows from yonder shore; 
And wild-wood echoes to the stream replying, 
Mourn that the voices on the water dying 

Return no more! 


KATE A. DU BOSE. 


But now the soft south wind all gently wooeth 
Our little bark to leave the flower-gemmed shore ; 

And the light breeze that perfume round us streweth, 
This fairy basin soon will waft us o’er ; 

Then while soft zephyrs round us faintly blowing, 
Bear wordless voices from the forest deep, 

We'll listen to the water’s ceaseless flowing, 

And watch the wavelets dancing on—unknowing 

What course they keep. 


With rapid oar, the water-lilies parting, 
Whose snowy petals form the Naiad’s wreath, 
Soon o’er the crystal fountain swiftly darting, 
We cast our gaze a hundred feet beneath! 
- Between two heavens of purest blue suspended, 
Above these fairy realms we float at will— 
Where crystal grottoes lift their columns splendid, 
Formed of rare gems of pearl and emerald, blended 
With magic skill. 


Now in the west the gold and crimson blending, 

. Tell that soft twilight falleth o’er the world ; 

And on the breeze all noiselessly descending, 
The dew-drops lie in lily-cups impearled, 

All thought is lost in sweet bewildering fancies, 
While from the forest dies the light of day ; 

And witching silence every spell enhances, 

As o’er the wave the last glad sunbeam glances, 

Then fades away ! 


Farewell, Wachulla! sadly must I sever 

My spirit from thy sweet bewildering spell ; 
I leave thee, fairy fount, perhaps forever, 

And mournfully I bid thee now—farewell ! 
Yet still thy loveliness my soul o’erpowers, 

While dreamy shadows on the forest fall— 
And long shall memories of thy beauteous bowers 
Fall on my heart like dew on summer flowers, 

Refreshing all! 


4156 


A by. eBLOUN DT AUN DT Oe oro NC leciin: 


Miss Buount is a native of Georgia, born June 22d, 1839. 
Her family, for many years resident in Richmond County, 
removed but recently to Augusta, Georgia, where our young 
writer was deprived of her estimable mother. | 

Until her thirteenth year, she was educated entirely at the 
country schools in her neighborhood, but after that time 
entered the junior class of the Methodist Female College at 
Madison, Georgia, where she graduated at the age of seventeen. 
A satirical poem on “The Follies of the Age,’ which she 
delivered on commencement day, was extensively circulated 
through the South, and received many encomiums. 

EKorced by pecuniary reverses in the family to make her own 
way in the world, she resolved to devote her time to literary 
pursuits ; and, soon after her collegiate course ended, assumed 
the editorial responsibility of a paper published at Bainbridge, 
Georgia. For two years she continued the arduous duties of 
this position, upheld by the appreciation of the public, and the 
blessings of those nearest and dearest at her own fireside. 

Miss Blownt has been several times the successful competitor 
for prizes offered for poems and novelettes; on one occasion 
receiving a gold medal valued at a hundred dollars, for a short 
prose sketch, entitled “‘The Sisters.” A volume of her poems 
has just been issued by H. D. Norrell, Augusta, Ga. 

Miss Sinclair was born in Milledgeville, Ga., May 22, 1839. 


Her father, the Rev. Elijah Sinclair, at the time of her birth 
416 


© 


A. RY BLOUNT AND.-C. Bo SINCLAIR. ALT 


was a travelling preacher and a member of the Georgia Con- 
ference. A few years after, his health failing, he retired from 


professional service, and removed to Macon, Ga., where he 


became engaged in extensive mercantile business. From thence 


he afterward removed to Savannah, then to North Carolina, 


and finally to Georgetown, 8. C., where he passed the last years 
of his life. His family then removed to Augusta, Ga., and 
there Miss Sinclair began her career as a writer. 

Disavowing all desire for fame, as well as any great degree 
of confidence in her own abilities, Miss Sinclair has just given 
to the world a book of poems, impelled chiefly, she says, by the 
hope of being enabled thereby to secure a home for her mother 
and sisters. a) 

As we have received both of these volumes too late for a 
careful reading, we subjoin a spicy notice from the pen of the 
gifted poet and editor, John R. Thompson, of Richmond, Va. 


Poems. By Miss Annie R. Blount. Augusta, Ga.: Published by H. D. Norrell, No. 226 Broad street 
1860. 


Porms. By Miss Carrie Bell Sinclair. Same publisher. 


“With compliments of. the author” in each volume! In the name of all 
the nine Muses at once, we would ask what courage, what capacity has the 
editor to sit in judgment on the merits of poems thus brought to his notice? 
A pair of little birds come out of the forest and sing their melodies in con- 
cert for us, for all a June morning, with irrepressible gladness and as if their 
hearts were full to bursting—can we fail to feel grateful for the singing, and 
shall we say that the nightingale and the mocking-bird thrill a sweeter note 
than the linnet and the finch? Shall we complain of the crocus that it is not 
a rose or a camellia? Shall we try the poems by the standard of highest 
excellence and compare our sister poets (for such they seem in quality and in 
affection) with Mrs. Browning? Thank you, no. Nor will we seek to point 
out imperfections; but as something we must say of Misses Blount and Sin- 
clair, let us own that their volumes indicate poetic impressibility and much 
facility of versification, but also betray exceeding haste in the writers, as if 
they imagined that poetry must be composed with the greatest speed, dashed 

27 


A18 WOMEN OF THE SOUTH. 


off at the precious, golden ‘‘ moment of inspiration,” and forthwith placed in 
print before an expectant and sympathizing public. This is a sad mistake. 
The truest poets have always painfully elaborated their verses, as if, accord- 
ing to the inexorable law of human compensations which decrees that all 
pleasure must be bought of suffering, these verses would afford the reader 
no enjoyment had they cost the writer no trouble. The most tripping and 
graceful of all the ‘‘Irish Melodies,” which would seem to have gushed from 
the fountain of Mr. Thomas Moore as freely as a spring pours its cool, spark- 
ling tribute into Killarney, were, in point of fact, not in the least gushing ; 
they just trickled, as it were, drop by drop, and it was not until four or five 
weeks had elapsed, in several instances, from the time of its commencement, 
that the perfect ballad was ready for the piano and the printer. Byron, we 
know, wrote rapidly, but ‘‘Childe Harold” itself has some errors in gram- 
~ mar, and whoever gets a sight of the original MS., in the little Byron parlor 
over the book wareroom of Mr. John Murray, in Albemarle street, will see 
that it was fairly written over and over half a dozen times. Poe was weeks 
at ‘The Raven,” but we need not multiply instances to prove the truth of 
Sheridan’s remark, that ‘‘easy writing’s dashed hard reading.” It is this 
truth that we would impress upon Misses Blount and Sinclair. Do we say 
their verses are ‘‘ hard reading??? We do not. But we confidently declare 
that they must work more patiently at their verses, they must read more 
and reflect more, or they will never win the guerdon of the highest success. 
We have promised that we would not seek for defects in these volumes, but 
candor compels us to say that many of Miss Blount’s and Miss Sinclair’s pieces 
appear to have been wrought as rapidly as garments are now made by the 
sewing-machine—let us say Singer’s, us the name favors the illustration—and 
one or two expressions, which have struck our eye in turning over the leaves, 
must be referred to, in the way of enforcing our lesson. Miss Blount is very 
fond of the phrase ‘“‘a bird of plumaged wing.” It seems to be a pet phrase, 
for she uses it in connection with her darling ‘‘ Carrie Bell” (probably Sin- 
clair), and it oecurs more than once again in her volume. Now, it appears to 
us that a little reflection would have assured her that a more unhappy expres- 
sion she could hardly have hit upon. There is no such participle in the lan- 
guage as “plumaged,” and if there were, ‘‘a bird of plumaged wing” would 
mean only a bird whose wings were feathered, and as all birds are winged 
and their wings are always of feathers (the bat furnishes the sole exception, 
and the bat is hardly a bird), the phrase “‘a bird of plumaged wing” is 
tautological, and means no more than a bird after all, Asa bird, it must 


A. R. BLOUNT AND OG. B. SINCLAIR. A19 


have wings, and these wings must be “plumaged.” If she had said a “bird 
of snowy wing,” or “a bird of ebon*wing,” here a distinct idea would have 
been presented to the mind. Again we think a very little reflection would 
have convinced Miss Sinclair of the bad taste of wishing to be her lover’s 
cigar (see page 37); either she would have omitted the poem, or wished to 
be his meerschaum cigar-holder. But we must forbear. It would have been 
afar more pleasant and easy thing for us to have bestowed unqualified praise 
upon these poems, but this would have been uncandid in us and an injustice 
to the authors, since they should be told of their deficiencies. We should be 
exceedingly glad to receive from each of them, some months hence, a second 
volume of half the size of these respectively, containing such better verse 
in less quantity, as we think they could write, with greater’ care and severe 
self-criticism. 


WHAT THE MOON SHINES ON. 
BY ANNIE R. BLOUNT. 
A PRIZE POEM. 


Faces of beauty in festive throngs, 

Lit up with music, and mirth, and songs ; 

Eyes of bewildering, varying hue— 

Seldom on spirits sincere and true— 

Jewelled bosoms and Parian brow, 

Jesting salute and courtly bow 

There, but alas! not there alone, 

Are some of the scenes that the moon shines on. 


Soft falling veil, and a bridal wreath 

Hiding a struggling heart beneath ; 

Altar prepared, and a victim-bride, 

Sacrificed for some kinsman’s pride ; 

Falsely vowing to love and obey, 

While her truant heart is away, away ; 

Her jewelled hand clasped in one more warm, 
While close to her side stands an unseen form / 


Hark! ’tis a spirit-voice she hears, 
While her lashes conceal the coming tears; 


420 


WOMEN OF THE SOUTH. 


Is it the one which blessed her youth, 

Ere gold had purchased her woman’s truth? 
Nay! ’twas only a moonbeam spoke 

Words to a heart that was well-nigh broke: 
Sad are the scenes I’m doomed to see, 
Maiden, I weep while I gaze on thee. 


A bower of roses—a youthful pair 

Learning their first love-lesson there ; 

Soft hands clasped, and eyes cast down 

To hide a blush, not a gathering frown. 

Ah! the moon would smile if she did not know 
That human love so oft brings woe; 

That those who listen and most believe, 

Must learn that the fondest ones deceive. 


A coffin black—and a young bride there, 

With the white flowers still in her shining hair ; 
Her hands clasped over a bosom chill, 

Where the diamond glitters proudly still. 

Smiles on the lips, where the kiss of love 

Is lingering yet, though they ne’er may move— 
O God! how they pray for a tone, a breath, 
From the pale lips closed with the seal of death. 


A pallet of rags in a corner lying, 

Catching the breath of the faint and dying; 
No pillow to ease the aching head— 

A pitcher of water—a crust of bread. 
Curtains of rags of various hue, 

Where the keen north wind comes whistling through : 
No watcher to tell when life’s sands run out— . 
Only the moon on her midnight route. 


No sound of music, no tone of mirth; 

A cold, bare room, and a clean, bare hearth ; 
A handful of ashes, and children’s despair, 
Orying because no warmth is there ; 


A.B. BLOUNT AND OC. B. SINCLAIR. 


Uncombed hair, and small naked feet 

That have paced all day the snow-clad street ; 
Nursed by hunger, and want, and pain— 
Asking for alms, but alas! in vain. 


A sickly light—an uncarpeted room, 
Shrouded in poverty’s darkening gloom; 

No picture to brighten the naked wall, 

Or gladden when tears unheeded fall. 

A weary woman in want and dirt, 

Singing again the ‘‘ song of the shirt ;” 
Wearily toiling for life—for bread, 

While the cold night lamps die out overhead, 


A single candle of sickly beam— 

Dreary abode for a poet’s dream! 

A fair young maiden with struggling soul, 
Breathing her life in a glowing scroll; 
Fashioning thoughts that have filled her brain 
With beauty that made her forget life’s pain, 
Imparting to paper a music sweet, 

While her hands glide over the snowy sheet; 


Dreaming that he may read her song, 

And sigh because of her early wrong ; 
Catching in momentary pause, 

A far, faint sound of the world’s applause. 
But the hectic spot blooms on her cheek, 
And the hacking cough is low and weak ;— 
Yes; fame will come—when the willows wave 
Their graceful boughs oer a nameless grave. 


Hush! ’tis the dice-box—oh! no not there, 
See the ghastly face and the wild despair ! 
The greedy clutch of the winning one, 

The maniac glance of the wretch undone : 


421 


422 WOMEN OF THE SOUTH. 


Think of the weeping sister and mother, 
Mourning the crimes of a son and a brother ; 
Fortune, and truth, and honor gone, 

Are some of the scenes the moon shines on. 


Hark! ’tis the sound of wild revelry, 

The wine-cup sparkles and floweth free, 
Wreathed with roses, but bearing beneath 

A hideous serpent whose name is—Death! 

Hear the ribald jest, and the laughter loud, 

And the boisterous mirth of a reckless crowd ;— 
The moon smiles never on such a spot: 

Nor Virtue—her very name’s forgot. 


Not there !—not there!—’tis the gilded hall, 
Where Satan gloats over our race’s fall ; 

Sin hides under that polished floor, 

And faces are there that blush no more: 

The painted cheek and lip are there, 

Striving to hide the soul’s despair.— 

Oh! the laugh which rings on the listening ear, 
Is mirth from the whited sepulchre! 


Stars of heaven! I would not be ye, 

Too dark are the scenes that you often see; 
Moon! I envy you not your light, 

It falleth too often on woe and blight. 
Perjured soul and a broken vow, 

Crushed heart hid by asmiling brow ; 
Sin-cursed soul, and an oily tongue, 
Gloating o’er tears from beauty wrung— 
Virtue crushed down by iron heel, 
Fortune with ever turning wheel, 


Raising proud vice to an earthly throne, 
While the honest poor weep and die alone. 


A. R. BLOUNT AND C. B. SINCLAIR. 


Secret crimes reached not by law, 

Hearts where the canker-worms always gnaw— 
Bridal favors—and funeral pall— 

Watched by the God who loves us all: 
These—and the tale is not yet done— 

Are some of the scenes that the moon shines on. 


DREAMING. 


BY CARRIE BELL SINCLAIR, 


Dreaming a dream of long ago, 

Of a brow as cold as the winter snow ; 

Dreaming of lips that pressed my own; 

Dreaming of joys that all have flown ; 

Dreaming of hands that lie at rest, 

Over a cold and pulseless breast ; 
Dreaming, idly dreaming on— 

What are these idle dreams to me? 


Dreaming of eyes that meet my gaze 
Through the dusky shadows of by-gone days; 
Dreaming of words that filled my ear 
When the form of a lover lingered near; 
‘Dreaming of what he said to me, 
As he clasped my hand on bended knee; 
Dreaming of vows that then were spoken; 
_ Dreaming of vows that now are broken ; 
Oh! what are these dreams to me? 


Dreaming of music half forgot, 

That lingered one eve in a shady spot; 

Dreaming a dream of an olden time, 

Filling my soul with its merry chime. 

Dreaming again of by-gone years ; 

Dreaming of smiles; dreaming of tears; 
Dreaming, idly dreaming on— 

What are all these dreams to me? 


423 


424 


WOMEN OF THE SOUTH. 


Dreaming now of the homestead dear, 

Of the father who sat in the old arm-chair ; 

Dreaming of soft blue skies that smiled 

So lovingly there when I was a child; 

Dreaming of things that meet my gaze 

Through the dusky shadows of by-gone days. 
Dreaming, idly dreaming on— 

What are these dreams to me? 


Dreaming of shady sunny bowers! 

Dreaming of music, song, and flowers; 
Dreaming o’er tales of love I told 

Ere my brow grew sad, and my heart grew old; 
Dreaming a dream by the moon to-night ; 
Dreaming a dream, oh! wondrous bright; 
Dreaming a dream as fair as truth, 

Too sweet to fade with the hopes of youth. 


Dreaming again of the homestead dear, 

Of the pale, cold forms that slumber there; 

Dreaming of things that meet my gaze 

Through the dusky shadows of by-gone days; 

Dreaming to-night of other years ; 

Dreaming of smiles; dreaming of tears; 
Dreaming, dreaming, dreaming on— 

When will these weary dreamings end ? 


LIZZIK PETIT. 


Miss Petrr was born in Albemarle County, Virginia, in the 
once flourishing little hamlet of Milton. She had just entered 
upon her second year, when the family removed to an old home- 
stead, some miles distant, which they called “The Retreat.” 
In a reminiscence of her girlhood, she says: 

“¢The Retreat’ was a wild, gloomy and romantic spot, 
which had the reputation of being haunted, and my first recol- 
lections are of the childish curiosity and terror with which I 
used to roam through the long corridors, empty rooms, and 
large, dark closets, which the legends of my nurse had peopled 
with phantoms. Both Milton and ‘The Retreat’ are in ruins 
now. The graveyard of the former place is the only inhabsted 
portion of the town; and of all the family who dwelt beneath 
the roof-tree of the latter, not one save myself is left on earth. 
Over my early life was cast the shadow of these influences, and 
the brooding wings of memory too soon folded themselves 
around a heart whose dearest pulse-beats were,the requiems of 
the loved and lost.” 

At the age of four years, Miss Petit was left an orphan. 
After the death of her best friend—the mother, whose tender. 
care had ensphered her from infancy—she and her grand- 
mother abandoned the gloomy “ Retreat,” and went to reside 
with her only surviving maternal aunt, who had been recently 
left a widow. But her grandmother, burdened with the 


supervision of a large plantation, and her aunt, rich, young 
425. 


426 WOMEN OF THE SOUTH. 


and beautiful, were too much absorbed in their own pursuits to 
give to the rapidly developing child that wise watch and cul- 
ture which her peculiar temperament demanded. At five years 
she was sent to school, and soon became the “pet prodigy” ~ 
of her young teacher, whose loving discipline she will ever 
eratefully remember. 

Naturally delicate, however, and the regime of the school- 
room beginning to affect her health, she was soon removed, 
and then commenced the free, wild, random life of her child- 
hood. 

“ Brook Farm,” the residence of her aunt, was situated in 
the heart of the most beautiful scenery of Virginia. Deeply 
imbued by nature with romance, our author spent her time in 
rambling, like a young deer, over hill and dale, and devouring 
the miscellaneous contents of the old family library. Between 
the years of six and twelve, she became familiar with writers 
far beyond her range, floating sometimes on dangerous deeps 
of impassioned poetry and romance, living in a world of her 
own emotions, haunted by visions of ideal beauty, devoured 
with longings for the brilliant future which her imagination 
pictured. 

At twelve, precocious in mind, heart, and physique, she was 
transferred to the care of an elderly relative—a widow and 
childless, but quite remarkable for the tact and judgment which 
she had displayed in the rearing of several adopted children. 
‘““My venerable monitress,” says Miss Petit, “ evidently thought 
there had been some serious errors in the training of her new 
charge, and set herself to work to correct them with a vigor 
and severity which, I fear, had quite the contrary effect.” 

She was then placed for a year or two under the excellent 
guidance of Dr. White, a well known southern divine, then the 
head of a flourishing young ladies’ seminary in Charlottesville, 
Virginia. But the tameless spirit, which had been ripening in 


LIZZIE PETIT. A427 


a school of its own for so many years, continued to assert itself, 
and, at fourteen, Miss Petit entered society. 

Merged in a sea of excitement, all systematic study was, of 

course, suspended ; but as seasons wore away, and with them 
the first glamour of a social career—as our youthful belle found 
her springs of pleasure yielding sometimes bitter waters—her 
fair flowers withering as she plucked them—she addressed her- 
self with a new zest to the culture of her intellect. 

Under the influence of this mood, at the age of nineteen, she 
produced her first book, “ Light and Darkness,” which was 
published by the Appletons, had a large sale in this country, 
was republished successfully in London, and translated into 
French. 

In this book the author goes over the social ground she has 
traversed, delineating fashionable life with the sharp and clear- 
cut lines of one who has proved its follies and its perils. As 
we read, the wonder grows that a girl of nineteen could be so 
thoroughly the woman of the world—so perfectly au fact of the 
artificialities and hollowness, the by-play and intrigue of the 
beau monde. We cannot help feeling sorrowful for the veil so 
early torn away—for the beautiful dreams prematurely dis- 
pelled—for the fair young face and the old young heart. The 
same regret is clearly an underlying current of the book. Our 
author misses the sweet time of wating and watching, which, 
by a delicate provision, reveals life step by step to the neophyte. 
At the close of a lively chapter in this, her first volume, she ~ 
thus wearily moralizes : 

‘“ How the inner life mocks the outer! Even as I write 
these careless lines, I feel as if the spell of death was upon me; 
I seem to hear his stealthy footsteps in the dark distance, slowly 
but surely coming. It struggles in my veins with the warm 
bounding life-blood of youth. Which shall triumph? Is this 
death-shadow a dream or a reality? I gaze on the autumn 


* 


428 WOMEN OF THE SOUTH. 


leaves as on a scroll which memory lays open before me: telling 
of bright flowers dead in the pathway of life, as of Nature; of 
bright hopes, dying even as these leaves, in a heart too early 
doomed to taste the fruits of destiny. The breeze wailing 
through the forest oaks, whispers, ‘ Passing away—all earthly 
things are passing away ;’ and I, loneliest of all earth’s lonely 
children, why should I stay? <A stray waif on life’s wild 
waters—a single blossom on a leafless tree, clinging dependent, 
with naught to rest upon. 

“The world courts our society—it woos our smiles, while we 
minister to its pleasures ; while the gay laugh is on our lip, the 
light word on our tongue, it is willing to share our gaiety, for 
gaiety ever throws an atmosphere of warmth and sunshine 
around it; but the bitter tear, the moan bursting from a sur- 
charged heart, these must be indulged alone.” 

One year after the appearance pf “ Light and Darkness,” 
Miss Petit gave to the world another work, entitled “ House- 
hold Mysteries.” This volume, prepared very hastily, upon the 
impulse of her first success, is not quite in the line of advance, 
but has been received with favor, and widely circulated. 

Our author has now in preparation a “Society Novel,” 
which she considers her chef @euvre. It is to be called “ The 
Stars of the Crowd, or Men and Women of the Day,” and will 
doubtless contain something of personal interest to every reader. 

Miss Petit deserves great commendation for her untiring 
and energetic industry. Thrown very early upon her own 
resources, she has brought them all into action, and shown her- 
self capable of a rigorous and self-denying application, of which 
neither the wild days of her girlhood nor the gay, fashionable, 
phase which succeeded, gave the remotest promise. 

In consequence of an accident which imperilled her life, and 
confined her for months to her bed, she turned her attention for 
awhile to dramatic reading, and upon her recovery, by the 


\ 


LIZZIE PETIT. 429 


invitation of some of our leading literary men, appeared before 
a New York audience as a dramatic reader. The “ New York 
Tribune ” thus notices the occasion : 


According to previous announcement, and, “in compliance with the 
invitation of many distinguished citizens,” Miss Lizzie Petit gave a dra- 
matic reading on Thursday evening, at Dodworth’s Hall. The dollar 
admission weeded the parterre of all seedy plants; and the audience was 
an elegant one. A pleasing feature in the programme was the introduc- 
tion of various selections of light music, performed by Dodworth’s band. 
The entertainment consisted of two readings from Shakspeare, Bulwer’s 
poem ‘‘The Wife’s Tragedy,” a translation from the Spanish, and one of 
Mrs. Caudle’s Curtain Lectures. As a general truth, truism indeed, dra- 
matic readings do sadly bore the listener; especially if the reader be a 
woman. For if she has not a great and exceptional degree of dramatic 
genius, she will be tame; if she is fired by the genius, she will be ham- 
pered by the restraint of the lecture-room, and the beauty of fitness will 
be wanting in the performance. Decidedly the most agreeable of the 
female readers are they who have a quiet, drawing-room style of delivery, 
added to an attractive face and form. All enjoy the sight of beauty of 
any species, but of feminine beauty most. And when one can have an 
excellent excuse for sitting through an entire evening, gazing in a lady’s 
eyes, particularly if the eyes are brilliant, he will put severe criticism 
behind him, and will be apt to go again. In this remark may be found 
a hint of Miss Lizzie Petit’s success. It will not be considered extravagant 
praise to say, that she is superior to the countless majority of Shak- 
spearean readers below Mrs. Kemble. Whereas in them we so often have 
noise without anything more, in Miss Pettit we have no noise and much 
beside. Agreeable in voice, winning in manners, charming in personal 
appearance, and with the governing taste of an intelligent woman, she will 
make a successful tour about the country as a public reader. She will 
attract by her beauty, and will never repel by the coarse and corrupt elocu- 
tion with which a suffering public has been too much tormented. 


se 


430 WOMEN OF THE SOUTH. 


BENEDICK THE MARRIED MAN. 


It was one of those fair, bright days, which sometimes smile upon us in 
that month of “cloud and storm,” November. Over the ordinarily busy 
city of Gotham, reigned that solemn air of decorous quiet, which is peculiar 
to the very atmosphere of the Sabbath. The lofty spire of Trinity seemed 
to hide its head amid the fleecy clouds which hung suspended from the clear 
blue sky; as if it sought to bear aloft the rich full notes of music, which 
swelled through the stately dome below. In one of the richly furnished 
pews of the church, sat Florence Fulton and Judge Woodward. ‘The head 
of the latter was bent reverently, for he was a man of prayer, a man whose 
religious sentiments were lofty, sincere, and open. Not so with his com- 
panion; her eyes wandered over rich velvets and waving plumes, over pious 
saint and decorous sinner, and at last rested in a dreamy gaze on the stained 
glass windows, while her ear drank in passionately the rich tide of swelling 
music, which rolled in waves of melody through the dim arches and proud 
old dome of Trinity. 

She was aroused from her reverie by a slight stir in the aisle; and the 
next moment she saw Claude St. Julian enter a pew nearly opposite her own 
—a lady of small, slight figure leaning on his arm, 

Her features were concealed by the thick veil she wore, but when she 
removed it after taking her seat, Florence saw that her face was fair, but 
pale, almost to a sickly wanness; her features delicate, but wearing an 
expression of listless despondency, painful to look on in one young, and 
otherwise pretty. She held by the hand a little girl of some five summers, 
so fair, so bewitchingly beautiful, and yet so fragile, so spirituelle in appear- 
ance, that the eyes of Florence wandered involuntarily from the mother, to 
gaze with delight, mingled with painful interest, on the child. It was the 
face of an angel rather than a human being, and in that face were mingled 
all the fairy tints of summer heaven; the soft, serene blue of the sky in the 
eyes; the fleecy white, and the rose-tinged hues of the evening clouds in the 
exquisite complexion; and the golden tints of sunset in the shining hair. It 
was a feast to the artist soul of Florence, to gaze on the unconscious 
little being, as she sat there with calm, reverential look, her tiny hands 
clasping her prayer-book ; her childish accents lisping the prayer, a halo of 
innocence and loveliness encircling her. ‘Who could they be, that mother 
and child?” for such was the position they seemed to occupy toward each 


LIZZIE PETIT. A438] 


other. Perhaps the lady was a relative of Claude? perhaps she was a 
widow? and a pang of jealousy shot through her frame; for everybody 
knows widows are proverbially dangerous. She glanced at her dress; 
though grave, almost sombre in hue, it was not mourning; and the next 
moment she smiled at her own folly, in supposing for a moment that the pos- 
sessor of that face—with its cold, marble-like features, and listlessly mourn- 
ful expression—could fascinate the gay, dégagé St. Julian. Still she felt 
aroused within her all the latent power of that feeling, whose fatal indul- 
gence in our first mother, lost Paradise to her unhappy children; and we 
fear the services of that day were of little profit to Florence. Nor was 
she the only one in that still, decorous crowd of beauty, wealth, and 
fashion, by whom the solemn services they had nominally assembled to 
hear, were unheeded. Many a velvet-robed bosom throbbed with feelings 
far different from those of devotion—to heaven at least; many a fair head 
beneath its waving plumes was filled with far different thoughts from 
those which the place and the occasion should have inspired. Immedi- 
ately behind that of Florence was the Moreton pew. It was in vain that 
Eva endeavored to compose her thoughts into their usual serene, devo- 
tional frame—in vain that she tried to listen with attentive earnestness to 
these sublime truths, those divine doctrines of life and love, which gene- 
rally awoke so deep an echo in her grateful heart; with pain she felt her 
thoughts revert to other and earthly objects—to objects, too, upon which 
she, alas! had no right to fix them. Before her was the man who had 
awakened every feeling of love her young heart had ever known; and 
by his side was her rival, her regal charms set off to the greatest advan- 
tage by the most tasteful and exquisite toilet. 


‘“‘That adornment, rich and rare, 
Which makes the mighty magnet set 
_ In woman’s form more mighty yet.” 


She had often heard Judge Woodward express his admiration for a 
pretty hand. She saw the fair hand of Florence, whose delicate beauty, 
and soft, creamy whiteness, seemed to woo the beholder to touch its vel- 
vety softness; she saw that little hand—upon which glittered a single dia- 
mond of intense lustre—resting coquettishly on the crimson velvet cushion, 
which enhanced its whiteness; and she saw the eyes of Judge Woodward 
riveted admiringly upon it. What wonder that the scene swam before 
her, and a painful sickening sensation thrilled through her frame ? | 


* 


432 WOMEN OF THE SOUTH. 


And had she known how little Florence cared for being beside her, 
aside from the gratification she felt at the open homage of so distinguished 
a man; had she known how few thoughts she gave him in return for the 
devotion he lavished upon her, would it have afforded her any consola- 
tion? No, she would but have felt more deeply pained, to see that 
noble heart sacrifice its dearest feelings—those feelings so lofty, so deep, — 
so true, on an ungrateful shrine. She hoped that Florence loved him— 
how could she help loving him? was he not the very man to call forth 
the feelings of her proud ambitious nature; to awaken the love of her 
warm, enthusiastic heart? And with one sigh for her own lonely life, 
Eva bent her head on her cushion, and prayed fervently for his—for their 
happiness. 

The stranger lady noticed the eager, though not impertinent gaze, which 
Florence fixed upon her; and as she read the manifest interest expressed 
in that look, particularly for the child, her pale features assumed more an 
expression of life. Claude, too, saw that gaze; as he marked it, a shade, 
half of haughty impatience, half of melancholy, swept over his features. 
As they passed out, after the conclusion of the services, Florence, who was 
on the gui vive, distinctly heard the stranger lady say, in soft, low tones: 
‘“‘Olaude,’ who is that beautiful woman who has just passed us?” His 
reply was lost as the crowd moved between them. 

Searcely able to repress her impatience until they reached the eu 
the first question of Florence then was: 

‘Who was that lady with Mr. St. Julian, at church ?” | 

“His wife. Have you never seen her before? However, it is not 
strange, she goes out so little.” 

‘“‘ His wife!” almost screamed poor Florence. ‘“‘Is Claude—is Mr. St. 
Julian a married man 2?” 

‘‘Oertainly! Is it possible you did not know it? He has been— but par- 
don me, you are ill?” 

‘No, only a passing spasm at the heart, to which I am at times subject ; 
it will be over in a moment,” and she made a violent effort to recover her- 
self; though when she spoke, her voice was changed, and she was pale as 
death. 

“How long has Mr. St. Julian been married?” she summoned up nerve 
to say. : 

‘“Oh! some years. It was a boy and girl match, I believe. I am glad to 
see Mrs. St. Julian out; it is the first time I have seen her at church since 


LIZZIE PETIT. 433 


their return from Europe; or rather since his return, for she did not accom- 
pany him.” 

‘Did not accompany him!” echoed Florence, almost betraying by her 
eager questions the interest she felt. ‘‘ Was he not absent several years?” 

“ About three years, I think. Mr. St. Julian has not the reputation of 
being the most devoted of husbands; so I suppose the separation was not a 
grievous one, to him, at least.” 

*¢ And she—his wife—remained in New York?” 

‘No, with her mother, at New Haven, I believe. My dear Miss Fulton, 
you seem interested in Mrs. St. Julian.” : 

(‘“‘ Mrs. St. Julian!” what a name that was to her.) 

“No! oh, no! nothing but woman’s curiosity,” she replied, with an 
effort at equivocation that caused her cheek to burn; and pulling the check- 
string, she desired the coachman to drive faster, though he was then going 
at almost furious speed. | 

What was the agony she endured in the effort to suppress her feelings 
during that short ride home! When the carriage stopped at her own door, 
Judge Woodward assisted her to alight, and was about to follow her into the 
house, but she could endure his presence no longer. 

‘You will excuse me, I am sure!” she said, hurriedly. “I am quite 
indisposed. Any other time [I shall be happy” 

“Of course. Judge Woodward regretted very much that Miss Fulton 
found herself so unwell;” a stately bow, and he was gone; and Florence 
breathed freer, and walked with a hurried step to her own room, locked her- 
self in it, and hastily throwing aside her bonnet and mantle, as if their 
weight was suffocating—so hastily, that in removing the former, she pulled 
down the whole mass of her beautiful hair, which fell dishevelled, but 
unheeded, around her—she paced wildly to and fro the room for half an hour, 
without pausing for an instant; her hands clasped tightly over her throbbing 
bosom, her lips and cheeks scarlet with agitation. How wildly the waves of 
disappointment and despair rolled through her storm-tossed soul in that 
wretched half hour can only be imagined by those impassioned beings, who, 
like her, have staked the heart’s most cherished feelings on the throw of a 
single die—and, like her, lost. After the first torrent of emotion had sub- 
sided, bitter regrets for the manner in which she had acted with Claude tor- 
mented her already distracted brain. Had she not almost wooed him to her 
side? Had she not evidently in her manner showed the greatest preference 
for his society—neglected, nay, almost shunned others, when he was near? 

28 





434 WOMEN OF THE SOUTH. 


had he not, during the short period of his acquaintance with her, been ever 
by her side, and, though never breathing a word of love, lavishing a thou- 
sand lover-like attentions on her? And what would the world say to this 
marked flirtation with a married man? But after all, with her usual 
haughty scorn for the opinions of society, she felt that the ‘‘ world’s dread 
sneer”? was nothing, compared with this sudden crushing of her deepest 
feelings; this total destruction of the bright hopes which one short hour . 
before were blooming so brightly and freshly around her. Bitter indeed 
to her was the awakening from love’s sweet dream of madness. The light- 
ning blight had fallen on the enchanted garden of the heart’s paradise, 
blasting every bud and blossom there; and now, what was left? Her 
heart refused to answer the question. Had he not already read her secret? 
Though lip had not answered to lip, had not her eyes, her tell-tale eyes, 
returned full often the lava flood-tide which had poured from his own 
into her inmost soul? Could she but forget if; but sink into a deep, 
dreamless sleep, to wake utterly oblivious of the past; of all bygone hopes, 
of all present feelings, fears, despair! 

Such wild, incoherent thoughts as these, dashed madly and tumultu- 
ously through her soul. There was but one resource on earth for her; 
the sparkling cup of pleasure yet wooed her fevered lip; vanity still whis- 
pered, ‘‘ Drink, drink deeper still, of the magic draught; it will bring 
forgetfulness; it must not be said that the proud Florence, the trium- 
phant, worshipped belle, mourns over a broken heart-dream.” No, she 
must be gay, proud, triumphant still; yea, she must learn to look on him, 
and tremble not beneath his gaze, thrill not at his touch; and this was the 
hardest task of all; could she ever accomplish it? Pride, prudence, all 
that was best and loftiest in woman’s soul, must come to her aid. She 
would avoid him; she would school her look and tone, to be unto him as 
unto others. And then, when she had untaught her heart its passion- 
dream, what then? She could not tell. All she knew was, that love for 
him was guilt; all she felt, was the horror of that word. 


SALLIE ADA REEDY. 


Amone the promising young poet-women of the South, 
whose writings are eminently southern in manner and spirit, 
Miss Reedy takes creditable rank. She began very early to 
write verse in a tender and musical vein, but with far too 
much earnestness for her years. Her recent productions are 
the utterances of a more clear, and calm, and self-contained 
womanhood. 

A southern editor,* himself a poet and—his words would 
seem to imply—a mystec, writes thus of her: 

“There breathes in all her writings an impassioned devo- 
tion, intense and pure, with a simplicity tender and graceful. 
This is the true region of emotional poet-life—the human in 
its warmest aspiration for the supra-human ¢deal. Her genius 
is vigorous, and at the same time exquisitely feminine—look- 
ing down upon life’s struggling waters from woman’s head- 
land of catholic charity. Mystery—the nameless and never 
told—often lends a spell, dreary yet delicious, to her muse. 
But this characteristic is always subordinate to the wealth of 
her creative faculty.” 

Miss Reedy is possessed of fine natural gifts, and, having 
enjoyed the advantages of generous and careful culture, devotes 
her future advisedly to the pursuits of literature. Her ver- 
sification is easy and musical, and such of her works as we. 
have seen, bear full seeds of promise. 

Her poems have been published in the various periodical 
issues of the South, and are now collected into a volume,, 
which will appear simultaneously with our own. 


* J. Wood Davidson. 


436 WOMEN OF THE SOUTH. 


THE BRIDAL. 


They sat within the moonlight—in the moonlight, side by side, 
Young Ferdinand, the princely, and his newly promised bride; 

You would have thought them lovers, for the dark waves of his hair 
Were mingled with the golden ones that made her brow so fair, 

And in those floating tresses, like bright angels in repose, 

Were the flowers that he had gathered when the evening star arose; 
It was a place and season fit for fairy, god, or elf, 

And you would have thought them lovers had you never loved yourself,— 
Never stood with one most precious ’neath the quiet evening skies, 
And thought the angels envied you the love-light in her eyes; 

By all the mem’ries clinging round that unforgotten one, 

Without a vain interpreter your heart had quickly known 

That woman never laid a hand, as cold and calm as hers, 

Within the hand that Love had made its guide through coming years. 
Oh, Ferdinand! some angel should have told thee to beware, 

Of the lips that speak so calmly when the soul is in despair ; 

Thou may’st tell thy heart’s devotion with a look and tone divine, 
With her ringlets on thy bosom, and her small hand pressed in thine: 
But by that quick convulsion—by the pallor on her brow, 

She has heard that language spoken by a dearer one than thou! 

' You may woo lier to your mansion—you may win her for your bride, 
And yet between her soul and thine there is a burning tide, 

And down within the darkened depths of that unholy stream, 

Is lying, cold and beautiful, the wreck of one bright dream. 


She sat within the moonlight—in the moonlight there alone, 
Without a tremor on her lip, though Ferdinand was gone, 

Gone with a bright love in his heart that could no warning speak 
Of one who scarcely felt his kiss upon her pallid cheek. | 
Oh Woman! when thy lover goes and leaves no throb of pain, 

Be careful of thy promises when ye have met again ! 

She raised her small hand to her brow—a hand so soft and fair, 
And gently took the roses from her long and dewy hair; 

She smiled—a smile not all of hate, nor yet of hope and trust, 
Itcame again when those bright things were trampled in the dust. 


SALLIE ADA REEDY. Ay, 


Hast ever seen a jewel into glittering fragments crushed? 

Hast seen a harp-string broken, and its silvery music hushed ? 

So looked the lovely lady when that fearful mood was past, 

And those sweet tears were blessed things, although they were the last ; 
So looked the lovely lady then, for pride a recreant proves, 

Whene’er despair unto the heart speaks of the thing it loves. 


“My beautiful wild dream !—my Claude! 
How can I see thee thus depart, 
And let a cruel world defraud 
Of all but this poor breaking heart! 
Can sterner duty’s proud command 
Restrain a soul that will be free, 
Or can I live for Ferdinand 
When I would rather die for thee ! 


“That voice since childhood had been sweet, 

Until he knelt one sammer day— 

I would have spurned him from my feet, 
But that his head was turning grey. 

I cannot tell thee of his theme— 
I would not think it over now, 

It seemed so like a troubled dream 
That only left a troubled brow. 


‘¢ They tell me I will love thee less 
In the dull future that must be— 
That time will teach forgetfuiness 
Of all that I have lost in thee! 
The lip is false that tells me so, 
False as my own has dared to be, 
When giving Ferdinand a vow 
My heart can only keep for thee. 


“Yon star that thou hast made so dear, 
Is going down, and it must see 
The last fond look—the last wild tear 
That I will give to love and thee. 


438 | WOMEN OF THE SOUTH. 


My beautiful wild dream—depart! 
I may not hear the tale you tell— 
They’ve chosen out a dull, hard part, 
And I must learn to act it well. 


“When Ferdinand’s bright jewels glow 

Amid the tresses of my hair, 

If this heart trembles can he know 
A faded rose is nestling there? 

And if, perchance, I hear thy name 
From lips more eareless than my own, 

He’ll see my pallid cheek, and blame 
The wind that has unkindly blown. 


“Thus, hour by hour and day by day 

Will come that slow and steady change, 
And when they mark a sure decay, 

The’ll weep, yet scarcely think it strange. 
It is a common thing to see 

A woman with a careworn brow, 
And they will never think of thee, 

Or of my poor heart’s broken vow.” 


“My beautiful, wild dream !”—she pressed her lips to silence then, 
For suddenly the vesper star went down upon that scene, 

All silently and radiantly as if its parting beam 

Had caught the farewell lustre of that lady’s dying dream. 

And when that signal star was bright once more on sea and land 
She stood beneath a chandelier, the bride of Ferdinand. 

Bring pity for that_fair young thing—in all her after years, 

She will not know a joy so sweet as last night’s holy tears. 

Bring pity for the fair-haired Claude!—he will not soon forget 
His love for one whom it were well if he had never met, 

But oh! for him whose loving heart will beg for love in vain, 
Pray that his faith in human truth may Jovingly remain ; 

Poor Ferdinand !—ten thousand joys can never once relieve 

The heart that doubts the only one ’twas blissful to believe. 








Ut, 


oy 
Gy, 
NGG 
Hh, 





‘L. VIRGINIA FRENCH. 


Mrs. Frenon is descended from leading families of Vir- 
ginia and Pennsylvania. She was born on the eastern shore 
of the “ Old Dominion,” at. the fine old country seat of her 
maternal grandfather, Captain Thomas Parker, an oflicer in the 
army of the Revolution. a 

Deprived, at a very early age, of her mother, a gentlewoman 
of rare beauty and excellence, she and her sister were sent to 
Washington, Pennsylvania, to be educated under the care of 
their grandmother. Guided and guarded by this truly estima- 
ble woman—to whom our author confesses herself indebted 
for her best points of character—they completed a course of 
study at the female seminary _ of that place, and praduege 
with the first honors. 

In proof of Mrs. French’s early success as a writer, we 
remember an incident related of her school-days. During the 
exercises which completed her seminary course, as she rounded, 
in clear, musical tones, the last sentence of her “graduating 
composition,” a brusque gentleman from Connecticut exclaimed, 
“¢ Who’s that?’ Upon being told the name and birthplace of 
the youthful graduate, he responded, bluntly, “ Well, they say 
‘no good can come out of Nazareth,’ but here’s something good 
out of Wise’s district.” As Mr. Wise and the mother of the 
now blushing young Virginian were connected by some family 
ties, this spontaneous tribute was received with much’ merri- 


ment. 
439 


440 WOMEN OF THE SOUTH. 


In 1848, Virginia and her sister returned to their father’s 
house. But a new spirit was rife in the old home; its Lares 
and Penates had been displaced, and the two sisters, ever united 
by the tenderest ties of sympathy, felt the bond tighten and 
strengthen, as, hand in hand, they determined to go forth into 
the world and shape their own destinies. Before the close of 
the year, they were established in Memphis, Tennessee, as 
teachers. 

Strangers in a strange city, they put themselves bravely to 
their self-appointed work, and by their energetic perseverance, 
no less than their personal and intellectual charms, soon won 
the confidence of all. , 

Having achieved a social and tutorial position, the elder 
sister began to turn her attention to literary pursuits, contri- 
buting occasional articles to the journals and magazines of that 
region, under the name of “ Z’/nconnue.” This signature soon 
attaining a good degree of distinction, her compositions were 
solicited by northern as well as southern periodicals, and the 
way to literary advancement lay open before her. 

In 1852, she became associated with some gentlemen of New 
Orleans in the publication of the “ Southern Ladies’ Book.” 

On the 12th of January, 1853, she was married to Mr. John 
H. French, of McMinnville, Tennessee, a gentleman of fortune 
_ and irreproachable life, whose qualities of mind and heart are 
in fine sympathy with her own. The train of incidents which 
led to their acquaintance, reads very much like a romance. 

A poem by.“ L’Lnconnue”—called “ The Lost Louisiana ”— 
appeared one morning in a New Orleans journal, and a news- 
boy, making his daily round past the St. Charles, came upon 
a stranger, whose air of “elegant leisure” and intelligence 
betokened, to the boy’s keen eye, a gentleman of taste. He 
commended the poem at once by name, caught the stranger’s 
attention, and secured a customer. 


L. VIRGINIA FRENCH. AA] 


There was more potency in the words, “ The Lost Louisiana,” 
than the boy imagined. Not long before the catastrophe which 
the poem commemorates, the stranger had lost all his worldly 
possessions by a collision between the “ Louisiana” and the 
_“ Belle of Clarksville.” He was a passenger on the latter boat, 
with a valuable stud of horses, a large amount of money, and a 
number of servant men, when the crash came, and only escaped 
with his life. With this sad cause of interest in the afterward 
ill-fated “ Louisiana,” he clipped the poem—after reading: it 
many times over and noting, curiously, the signature, “ Z’Jn- 
connue ”—and bestowed it carefully in his pocket-book. — 

Not long after, he took passage on a steamer bound up the 
Mississippi, and during a short detention at Memphis, went into 
a book-store in search of something to relieve the tedium of the 
voyage. While there, his attention was arrested by the familiar 
name of “ LZ’ /nconnue,” and an intimation that the fair ¢ncog- 
nita was just then passing. He turned—gave one look into the 
blue eyes that met his like the eyes of a Fate, and the steamer 
continued her course up the Mississippi without the stranger in 
whose pocket was burning “ The Lost Louisiana.”. An intro- 
duction was soon after effected ; LZ’ Jnconnue was merged in Mrs. 
L. Virginia French, and removed with her husband to McMinn- 
ville, Tenn., where she now resides. 

Her home is described as a most fitting haunt for the Muses. 
The Nashville “ Home Circle” says of it: “ Situated on a grace- 
ful eminence, to the right of the main thoroughfare leading to 
the village, it is surrounded by a grove of stately oaks, through 
which may be had a glimpse of the house and tastefully culti- 
vated grounds environing it. On the east, the waters of a 
winding river approach within a stone’s throw ; while beyond, 
at a distance of three or four miles, runs the main chain of the 
Cumberland mountains. Taste, comfort, and picturesque 
scenery, conspire to make her residence what she calls it—a 


449 WOMEN OF THE SOUTH. 


‘Forest Home.’ Here our author is leading a retired, studious, 
and happy life.” 3 

In 1856, Mrs. French published a collection of her poems 
under the title of ““ Wind Whispers.” Her poetry, like that of 
Mrs. Vertner Johnson, would seem to be the natural outflow of 
her exuberant and harmonious being. We sit down to analyze 
it, and find ourself floating away on a tide of rippling rhyme— 
forgetful of all but the delicious motion, and the silvery 
‘“tintinnabulation.” Yet many of the poems of this writer 
reveal under-currents which require only the hissing bolt of 
cigcumstance to stir them into crested billows of feeling and 
expression. 

Since the publication of the volume “ Wind Whispers,” Mrs. 
French has written a series of metrical “‘ Legends of the South,” 
some of which are finely imaginative and graphic. She has also 
published a tragedy in five acts, under the title of “Iztalilxo, 
the Lady of Tala.” Some touches in this drama are slightly 
suggestive of “Ion,” and “The Lady of Lyons,” but there are 
passages of great beauty and dramatic force, which are alive 
with the author’s own spirit, and prove her sufficient unto 
herself. We clip a little notice of this tragedy from a Southern 


paper : 


The scene of ‘‘ Iztalilxo,” is laid in the ‘‘ Land of the Sun,” the country of 
Mexico, when the strange people, the Tezcucons, ruled over its wealth-teem- 
ing mountains and plains, and the daring foot of Oortez had not yet 
printed its strand. The little volume is full of impassioned poetry, and 
some of the scenes are highly dramatic. The third one in the fourth act 
is finely sustained, but the meeting in the cypress grove between the 
two lovers, victims to the “love that fate forbids,” is replete with tenderness 
and beauty. We can hardly choose between so many beautiful passages, any 
particular one to quote; but there is one that only a woman could have 
written. Iztalilxo has said, ‘I wish” and then hesitated and paused, and the 
adoring prince exclaims : 


L. VIRGINIA FRENCH. 443 


‘‘ Thy ‘ wish ?’—oh tell me, love! 

Hadst thou thy dearest wish, what would it be? 
A throne—an empire—nations at thy feet— 
Gold like the sands upon the beaten shore— 
Honors—or Fame to sound thy gentle name 
Down ages yet to come—which should it be? 

Izra. Not one of all these! I would be best loved 
Of all that have been, or shall ever be! 

Prince. Why, that’s a woman’s wish, and well fulfilled: 
Long ere ’twas uttered, when I show the world 
Its ruling empress— 

IzTa. Stay! I crave not that: 

The empire I would have is one sweet home Pm 
With two hearts dwelling in it:. ’'d not seek 
To sway but one, for that is all the world !” 


And we cannot help thinking that this ‘“‘ wish ” is the dearest one in the 
heart of her, who makes a paradise of ‘“‘ Forest Home.” | 


Mrs. French has sufficient material, prose and poetry, for 
two other volumes. Her prose is instinct with the poetry of 
her nature—spirited, pointed, and rhetorical. : She has sent us 
but one specimen, and that a brief review of Le Vert’s “Souve- 
nirs of Travel,” which has been copied and re-copied, deservedly, 
into the best papers of this country and England. 

She is not only a large contributor to the current literature 
both of the North and the South, but has succeeded Mrs. Bryan 
in the editorial charge of “The Crusader,” of Atlanta, Ga., 
while we hear her everywhere cited as one faithful to all the 
responsibilities of the woman, the wife, and the mother. 

Among the poems which afford fine glimpses of our author’s 
imaginative power and range, we subjoin “The Legend of 
the Infernal’ Pass,” “The Lost Soul,” “ Alone,” ‘“ The 
Ghouls.” 

‘The Miserere of the Pines,” and “ Unwritten Music,” are 
full of soft, soughing melodies and meanings. “ One or Two,” 


A444 | WOMEN OF THE SOUTH. 


“The Long Ago,” and “The Little Brothers,” reveal the true 
woman. 


THE LEGEND OF THE INFERNAL PASS. 


“ About sixty miles south of Santa Fe, in the mighty range of the Sierra Blanca, there is a famous ~ 
gorge, some fifteen miles through, called ‘ El Canon Inferno,’ or the Infernal Pass, where rise stupen- 
dous masses of rock piled upon rock, until the traveller sees at the top but a narrow strip of sky, 
waile around him all is involved in chaotic gloom.”” The white steed alluded to in the tradition, is 
still said to be seen at intervals by the warriors of the Camanches. He is represented as of exceeding 
beauty and vigor, but of such swiftness that, notwithstanding the daring efforts of those most 
renowned in the capture of the wild horse, he has never yet been brought within range of the lariat. 


" In the white man’s tent, on the far frontier, 


At the fall of the faded leaf, 

’*Mid the pale-faced followers of the deer, 
Sat an old Camanche chief; 

And the sigh of the wailing wind swept by, 
Through the troubled autumn sky. 


They had passed thro’ the “ Cation” wild that day, . 
And they noted a solemn spell, 

As they entered the toilsome, darkling way, 

O’er the red man’s features fell, 

For a sound came up through the ravines grey, 

Like a wild steed’s shrilly neigh. 


The men leaped up at the thrilling sound, 

For their toiling mules moved slow ; 

But the chief cast a wary glance around, 

And his guarded tone was low, 

As he bade them haste, while the kindly sun, 
- Looked down in the gorges dun. 


And then, when the evening camp was set, 

And the hunters rest had found— 

When all in the deer-skin lodge had met, 

They asked of this mystic sound; 

And the chief, while his bronzed cheek grew pale, 
Thus told them the fearful tale : 


L. VIRGINIA FRENCH. 


‘* Pale sons of the eastern ocean’s foam, 
*Twas before your fathers came, 
To take for their own the red man’s home, 
And to give his hills their name, 
That the bold Camanche held this land 
With a high and mighty hand. 


*¢ My nation dwelt on the prairie-plain— 
Their wigwam fires shone bright ; 
Their children played in the waving cane, 
And the mother’s heart was light, 
And the father’s soul like the bended bow 
On the hills of long ago. 


‘* In those old days, by the snake-like pass 
That down through the mountain creeps, 
Where grows the spotted and sunless grags, 
That a dew of poison weeps— 

In a huge cave-cleft of the rifted stone, 
A stranger dwelt alone. 


** None knew the name of his father’s race, 
Or from what far land he came; 
He went not forth on the hunter’s chase, 
Or the warrior’s path of fame. 
But often the cavern rocked and rang 
To a hammer’s sounding clang. 


‘‘ He roamed through the savage glens that lie, 


’*Mid the giant rocks up-piled, 


Where a shining ore from the sun-god’s eye, 


Lies hid in the ravines wild; 
And the towering, misty shadows form 
The midnight’s bellowing storm. 


“ Like some tall tree on the waste alone, 
Was his stern and lofty mien ; 
It told of a power not yet o’erthrown, 
And it suited that desert scene. 


445 


446 


WOMEN OF THE SOUTH. 


And his voice, like a trumpet, seemed to roll, 
From fathomless gulfs of soul. 


** He loved a maid of my kingly race, 
And he sought her for his bride, 
But the Red-bird shrank from his dark embrace, 
And his den on the mountain side. 
From his offered love she turned and fled, 
For her heart grew sick with dread. 


‘“‘ Her sire looked on with knitted brow, 
Full scornfully he smiled, 
And said, ‘Shall the cawing, carrion crow, 
Be mate for the eagle’s child ? 
In our eyrie fallen, we know not whence— 
Let the children drive him hence!’ 


** But a vengeance-vow on the wind had passed— 
A flame on the night had shone, 
And the hoofs of a snow-white steed struck fast 
On the mountain pathway lone, 
And they say that steed from the cavern won 
Was the Machinito’s son! 


‘‘ His neigh to the wind rose wild and high 
(Thou rider bold, take heed), 
With the stag’s fleet foot he bounded by, 
That beautiful demon-steed ! / 
But the glare of his eye the soul had shook, 
With its terrible human look! 


‘The camp was roused at the break of day, 
By a frantic shriek upborne 
On the passing wings of the dawning grey, 
Through the silent hush of morn, 
And the warriors armed them for the fight 
By the morning-star’s pale light. 


‘“ Away! away! ‘tis the demon steed, 
And his trampling shakes the grove— 


L. VIRGINIA FRENCH. 447] 


Afar! afar! at a fearful speed 

The night-hawk bears the dove! 
But the eagle brood are on his route, 
With a fierce, triumphant shout. 


“O’er hill, o’er vale, for many a mile, 
By a hundred braves pursued, 
The steed and rider fled the while, 
With a courage unsubdued ; 
The maiden’s friends may toil and strain, 
But the dark-mouthed pass they gain. 


‘“‘The rider here at his utmost need, 
When the goal was almost won, 
Half-checked, in mid career, his steed, 
Still steadily bounding on, 
And shook his spear at his gathering foes, 
That over the summit rose. 


** An arrowy flight on the darkened air 
A shriek, and a fearful bound, 
The dart thrilled deep in her bosom fair, 
And the Red-bird fell! Around . 
- Her lover the fire-darts fall like rain, 
The prize he may not regain. 


‘‘ For the steed dashed on as that flinty floor 
Had been soft strewn with flowers, 
His nostrils smoke, and the red flames pour 
Around in burning showers ; 
Away! away! from his stifling breath, 
Away! for he speeds to Death! 


“°Tis o’er, bold rider! and didst thou shrink 
From his neighing wild and loud, 
When thy snow-white steed on the horrid brink, 
Dissolved in a snow-white cloud ? 
From the black corse rose a mad’ning yell 
As down through the gulf it fell! 


448 WOMEN OF THE SOUTH. 


“‘ They found the sweet Red-bird pale and cold, 
And softly her maiden grace 
They laid to rest in the flower-crowned mold, 
By the graves of her ancient race. 
Where bright o’er her bosom the wild rose springs, 
And the wood-dove sits and sings. 


‘““ Yet often I, in that dreary glen, 
Where the sunbeams dare not play, 
Have heard the shouts of pursuing men, 
And a wild steed’s startling neigh ; 
And hasted on with a nameless fear, 
From the danger prowling near, 


“Some bold Camanche who skims the plain 
On the prairie-courser’s track, 
In his camp may ne’er be seen again— 
From the chase he comes not back. 
Woe! woe! to him whom the spirits lead 
To follow the path of the phantom-steed !” 


LEGEND OF “THE LOST SOUL.” 


After midnight I was lulled to sleep by the melancholy notes of a bird, called ‘‘ El Alma Perdida,” 
or the Lost Soul. Its wild and wailing cry from the depths of the forest seemed, indeed, as sad and 
despairing as that of one without hope. The story in the Inca language runs somewhat thus: An 
Indian and his wife went out from the village to work their chacra, taking their infant with them. 
The woman went to the spring to get water, leaving the man in charge of the child, with many cau- 
tions to take good care of it. When she arrived at the spring she found it dried up, and went further 
to look for another. The husband, alarmed at her long absence, left the child and went in search. 
When they returned the child was gone; and to their repeated cries, as they wandered through the 
woods in search, they could get no response save the wailing cry of the little bird, heard for the first 
time, whose notes their anxious and excited imagination “syllabled” into pa-pa, ma-ma (the pre- 
sent Quichua name of the bird). I suppose the Spanish heard this story, and with that religious 
poetic turn of thought, which seems peculiar to this people, called the bird ‘* The Lost Soul.” 

HERNDON. 


Ha! what a frenzied cry 
Up the lone forest isles comes sadly wailing, 


Now quick and sharp—now choked with agony, 
As sight and sense were failing. 


L. VIRGINIA FRENCH. 


The far stars coldly smiled, 
Down through the arches of the twilight wood, 
Where sire and mother sought their child, 

In the dark solitude. 


And low the phantom wind 
Came stealing o’er the hills with ghostly feet 
But paused not in its flight to bear one kind, 
Soft echo—shrill and sweet. 


O’er them the giant trees 
All proudly waving tossed their arms on high, 
Yet no loved baby-voice from ’midst of these, 
Answered their broken cry. 


But one sad piping note, 
That strangely syllabled a blended name, 
As seemed its cadences to fall or float, 
From boughs above them came. 


The mother started wild, 
As that strange sound the forest foliage stirred, 
Then hastened to the sire—she knew her child, 
In that lone spirit-bird. 


No word the father spake: 
His face was ghastly, and its haggard lines 
Lay stern and rigid like some frozen lake 
O’ershadowed by its pines, 


Shuddering, she strove to speak, 
Once more in nature’s strong appealing tones 
To supplicate her child—there came a shriek 
That died in heavy moans. 


The night came down, afar 
Was heard the hoarse, deep baying of the storm, 
And thunder clouds around each captive star 
In black battalions form. 
29 


449 


450 


WOMEN OF THE SOUTH. 


Now, all the mighty wood 
Has voices like the sullen sounding sea, 
While onward rolls the deep, majestic flood 
His surges solemnly. 


The massy foliage rocks 
Slow swaying to the wind; and, failing fast, 
Embattled oaks that braved a thousand shocks 
Are bending to the blast. 


And crimson tropic bloom 
Lies heaped upon the sward, as though a wave 
Of Summer sunset streams within the gloom 
Had found a verdant grave. 


Down came the rushing rain, 
But far, perchance, where thunders never roll, 
The bird hath flown, the parents called in vain, 
Upon the wandering soul. 


Then feebly ’mid the maze, 
Of ’wildering storm, their feet the cabin sought, 
Oft turning back to search with blinded gaze, 
For that which now was not. 


True, true—the tale is old, 
And full of sorrow the tradition hoary, 
Yet daily life’s unwritten annals hold 
A sterner, sadder story. 


Oh! hear ye not the cry, 
That every hour sends up where thick life presses 
That shrieks from lowest depths to God on high 
From life’s great wildernesses ? 


It is the cry of Woman, 
And hers the really lost and wandering soul, 
Seeking amid the god-like, yet the human, 
To find her destined goal. 


L. VIRGINIA FRENCH. 


Like glacier of the North, 
Her pure and shining spirit braves the sea 
Of Life and Action—drifting, drifting forth, 
On waves of Destiny. 


“‘ Deep calling unto deep,” 
How raves the ocean by the tempest tossed! 
Perchance her onward course the soul may keep, 
Perchance ’tis wrecked, or lost. 


Perchance some other heart 
In pride of Being standing firm and free, 
May call, ‘‘Oh! seeker of the ‘ better part,’ 
Come, wanderer, to me!” 


Alas! that dulcet tone 

Is but the hollow music of a shell 

That mocks the Ocean; yet, the pilgrim lone 
It wins as by a spell. 


The dream, the dream is past— 
Perchance some careless word, some fancied wrong, 
The soul is driven forth—oh! woe the last, 

The weaker by the strong. 


From her closed lips a moan 
Goes up—yet seems it her unspoken prayer 
Falls back again upon her heart—alone 

To sink and perish there. 


And then her spirit pants 
Beneath the heat and burden of the day, 
Still struggling on amid the vulture wants 

That make her heart their prey. 


Still, in its source of pain 
Olinging most fondly; and in her holy trust 
Pouring its worship in a worse than vain 

Idolatry on dust: 


451 


452 


WOMEN OF THE SOUTH. 


Like the great organ rocks 

That rise on Orinoco’s distant shore, 

She sends rich music o’er the wave that mocks, 
Yet answers her no more! | 


From the still firmament 
A star drops—sparkles—and almost before 
The eye can note, is gone—with Chaos blent 
Its brilliancy is o’er. 


And thus with thee—unknown, 
Unrecognized, and lost in earthly clime, 
Thy ’wildered soul may wander, and alone 

from the shores of Time. 


Yet far in yon blue dome, 

Where dwell the spirits of the dear departed, 

There thou art known; and they will welcome home 
An angel—broken hearted. 


Then courage, weary one! 
Work while thou may’st—for though thy spirit, riven, 
Is fading like a fountain in the sun, 

Exhaled, it reaches Heaven! 


UNWRITTEN MUSIC. 


Dost thou not hear it? °Tis upon the breeze, 
-And by the brookside, in the forest aisles, 

And far away where cloud and sunshine meet 
In the deep azure sky. The symphonies 

Of Spring are gushing fervently and free, 

As early orisons from the pure hearts 

And lips of childhood. From the valley green, 
Where wave the slender willows, upward steals 
The low, clear tinkling of the rivulet, 

As though it mocked the roving zephyr’s search 


L. VIRGINIA FRENCH. 


For its sweet hiding-place. The bird and bee 
Sing to the blossoms, and their minstrelsy 
Calls forth the queenly rose, as erst the lay 
Of bard was wont to herald the approach 

Of beauty to the tournament. On high 

The sky-lark bathes his bosom in the cloud, 
And every tiny drop within it thrills 

To his glad melody, as thrills the hearts 

Of some vast multitude of listeners 

When Sweden’s song-bird sings. 


Around the eaves 
Flits the young blue-bird, and the little wren, 
With its low, piping note; the humming-bird, 
Bright as a flying rainbow ; while afar, 
From the deep everglade, comes up the call 
Of sweet-voiced dwellers in the solitude. 
Where the dark cedar flings its mossy boughs 
O’er the white-crested dogwood trees, is heard 
The winding of the locust’s tiny horn; 
While from the beechen grove the katydid 
Sends forth her merry challenge. At the morn 
The gay grasshopper, with his fairy fife, 
Sounds a shrill réveillé ; and swift at eve 
The elves come trooping to the beetle’s drum : 
Then, when the thunder, with its organ-swell, 
Peals through the dome of heaven, how softly fall 
The footsteps of the rain, like to a band 
Of gentle worshippers, slow entering 
The temple of the Lord. 


Oh! what a world 
Of heaven-descended music lies around 
Our daily pathway! in the morning air, 
The noontide glory, and the dewy fall 
Of dusky twilight—in the carollings 
Of bird and breeze, the murmur of the leaves, 
And the low-gliding streamlet! Can we note 


453 


454 


WOMEN OF THE SOUTH. 


Their many-braided melodies? or give again 

Their spells of song to thousands? None, not one; 
And yet the poorest slave may revel in 

This music, written by the hand of God. 


ALONE! 


List! my soul, as the night-wind drear 
Wails for the dead leaves, pale and sere, 
On the bleak earth strown ; 
Sighing and shuddering, faint and cold, 
As the maniac-miser’s cry for gold, 
It shrieks and sobs o’er the midnight wold— 
Alone! alone! ) 


Look! where the vagrant wild-fire’s light, 

Flitting away through the shadowy night, 
O’er the grave is thrown ; 

A lurid gloom in the dismal haze, 

Now light, now lost to the dreamer’s gaze, 

It fades—it dies in the ’wildered maze— 
Alone! alone! 


Hist! from the depths of the haunted well 
Rises a signal dread and fell: 
At the sullen moan, 
The.crumbling walls o’er the waters shake; 
And the spotted toad, and the slimy snake, 
In their beds of lichen quail and quake— 
Alone! alone! 


Far to the verge of a lonely glen, 

By the fox’s lair, and the ban-wolf’s den, 
Sweeps the wizard tone: 

It summons the ghoul from his charnel-bed, 

Withered, and gibbering, and demon-fed, 

To the path of doom—(and away he’s sped,) 
Alone! alone! 


L. VIRGINIA FRENCH. 455 


Tu-whit! tu-whoo! °’Twas the mousing owl, 
Keeping his watch by an altar foul, 

On the Druid-stone : 
He hides from the prowling vampire-brood, 
Deep in the gloom of the mystic wood, 
And cowers down in the solitude— 

Alone! alone! 


Croak! croak! ’Twas the raven’s cry: 

*Mid the bough of hemlock dank and high, 
His fiend-eye shone. 

To the night-hag hid in the blasted tree, 

As lone, as weird, and as fierce as he, 

Came the chant of his mocking prophecy— 
Alone! alone! 


Hark! what a writhing, stifling sound 

Slowly creeps from the murderers’ mound, 
Like a victim’s groan : 

Too dread to rise on the wind’s wild swell, 

Deep through the cypress-shadowed dell 

Kchoes the murmur hoarse and fell— 
Alone! alone! 


Up! my soul, from this charnel gloom, 

Which binds thee down to a living tomb 
With an iron zone: 

Up! my soul, on the homeless tide 

Of a dark existence, wild and wide, 

To doom and destiny proudly ride 
Alone! alone! 


MISERERE OF THE PINES. 


There’s a voice upon the hill-top, and a song within the vale; 
Fairy carols in the woodland, spirit-whispers on the gale ; 

A merry mermaid chorus in the ocean’s sparry caves, 

And a bold, triumphant pean from the ever-tossing waves; 


456 WOMEN OF THE SOUTH. 


But sweeter to my spirit, when the autumn day declines, 
Comes the stately, solemn, swelling miserere of the Pines. 


There is music in the morning, there is harmony at eve, 

In the rich, fantastic overtures the boughs and breezes weave ; 
Dreamy melody at noontide from the willow-hidden rills, 

Or the hunter’s bugle sounding on the far-off, breezy hills ; 

But when round the brow of midnight red the starry Serpent shines, 
I love the stately, solemn miserere of the Pines. 


When the firefly beacon glitters thro’ the twilight everglades, 
And the birds have sunk to slumber in the woodland colonnades, 
Comes a murmur like the wild-bee, in the meadow-lily’s bell, 
That deepens to the thunders of an organ’s rolling swell, 

As the night-wind, creeping slowly thro’ ten thousand leafy tines, 
Wakes the stately, solemn, swelling miserere of the Pines, 


The Palm, in sensuous beauty, and the Oak’s defiant pride, 
Bow, as the banded tempest sweeps the forest-phalanx wide; 
But the keen mid-winter wind, upon the ocean’s rocky shore, 
Calls forth from out the dark pine-grove a mimic surge’s roar ; 
And, as the serried waters pass their storm-embattled lines, 
Seem marching to the stately miserere of the Pines. 


Funeral anthems float far down the dim cathedral nave, 

Where crested Valor’s marble form lies shrouded for the grave ; 
But not so proud a dirge is his, as that which echoes wide 
Above the pilgrim lone who perished on the mountain-side, 

As thro’ the wild witch-hazel tree that o’er his rest reclines, 
Steals on the solemn, swelling miserere of the Pines. 


‘Oh! many a thrilling melody at midnight revels free, 
‘And music at the day-spring sounds her hymn of jubilee ; 
But like the thousand echoes that awake within the heart— 
Strong in their very gentleness, a blessing to impart 

' By bringing buried jewels from the spirit’s secret mines— 
Is the stately, solemn, swelling miserere of the Pines, 


L. VIRGINIA FRENCH. 457 


THE GHOULS. 


** Two terrible spectres called the ‘Searchers of the Grave,’ in the creed of the orthodox Moham- 


medans.”’ 


Tramp! tramp! to a ghostly tramp 
Echoed the churchyard dark and damp: 
Slowly swung as the hinges grate, 
Shrieking folded the iron gate: 
Sullen sounds from the belfry fell, 
Muffled moans from its brazen bell ; 
And spectres twain have crouched beside 
The new-made grave of a murdered bride. 
Tramp ! tramp! on the marble meet 

The hollow clank of their skeleton feet: 
A rattling clasp of their bony hands, 
And each of the other his health demands. 
*‘ Whence and whither?” °’Twas Moukir spoke, 
His voice of fear on the midnight broke; 
But no reply, save a sidelong sneer, 
Cast askance with a hideous leer, 
The other deigned him. Then suddenly, 

' In a gibbering spasm of fiendish glee, 
He sang :—his feet on the turf kept time, 
To the hollow chant of a weird old rhyme: 


“Whence cometh Nakir?—where slaves in their glee 
With shouts rend the air round a tall gallows-tree, 
Where the corpse of a murderer swings to the night! 
And whither goes Nakir?—his hurrying flight 
Seeks out the fair victim who perished in woe 
At her blood-ended bridal! She slumbers below. 


“‘ They have given us two: the dark minion of pride 
And the blossom he trampled—the beautiful bride. ~* 
That night to his chamber, all senseless and wan, | 
They bore her young lover, a palsied old man 


458 


WOMEN OF THE SOUTH. 


He woke in the morning: the days will be few 
Ere the arrow has sped, and he slumbers here too. 


‘““From a region of dread, from a realm of despair, 
We journey afar on the highways of air; 
And we come with a sullen, dull-echoing tread, 
To lead a wild measure—the dance of the dead, 
Where the prince and the peasant, the guilty and gay, 
Are gathered at last to their dwellings of clay. 


‘“‘ They brought from the palace with anthem and prayer, 
The icy remains of the new-christened heir: 
The sire was dejected, the mother grew wild, 
As the clods clattered over her beautiful child: 
The grass scarcely over the low grave had crept 
When again it was opened—the pale mother slept. 


“They brought the proud maiden, despoiled of her bloom, 
They laid her to slumber in silence and gloom; 
Her snow-sculptured bosom, so pulseless and cold, 
All quietly pillows the gathering mold: 
No gesture of loathing, nor shudder, nor start, 
As the worm nestles down in her passionless heart. 


“They brought the grim despot, bereft of his throne; 
In tyranny, terror, and triumph he shone: 
Alas! for the reptile assuming to sway 
A sceptre of dust over creatures of clay! 
They bore out his ashes with riotous glee, 
And his knell was their pran of wild jubilee. 


‘They brought the dead miser, so haggard and cold, 
Whose life was a libel, whose god was his gold: 
All careless they gossiped, as over the stones 
In the rumbling old death-cart they jostled his bones; 
And e’en the dull blind-worm, it loathed him when dead, 


And turned from a banquet so meagrely spread! 


L. VIRGINIA FRENCH. 459 


“They brought the pale scholar: for glory in vain 
His wrung spirit tortured a feverish brain: 
He shrank from the rich, he avoided the proud, 
He stood all alone in the revelling crowd: 
He struggled for honors—no honors for him; 
And the gaunt eye grew glassy, the life-star grew dim. 


“The warrior-chieftain went forth in his pride: 
His love was dominion, his sword was his bride: 
Twas a wild battle midnight—the foray was vain— 
A festering corse he was left on the plain, 
And famishing vultures, they ate out the eye 
That flashed with defiance when summoned to die. 


‘The brow where ambition has planted a crown, 
Pale Luxury pressing his pillow of down, 
The image of Beauty, the idol of Fame, 
Will shudder and shriek at our terrible name; 
Yet ho! for the banquet! the king and the slave 
Alike are the prey of the ‘Lords of the Grave!’” 


MADAME LE VERT’S “SOUVENIRS OF TRAVEL.” 


It has been said that the “‘ very word genius comprehends all the loveli- 
ness of woman. It signifies but the power to feel deeply, combined with an 
intellect capable of embodying those feelings into language, and of conveying 
its images of truth and beauty, from the heart of the writer to the heart of 
the reader.”’ If this be so, then is Madame Le Vert eminently a woman of 
genius ; and to be convinced of this fact, one has only to read her delightful 
“Souvenirs.” Her book is like herself, and she is a “venti, vidi, vici,” 
woman. She disarms all criticism, and to know her is to love her. Her 
fair open brow, like her warm heart, is the abode of sunshine, and the glance 
of her eye is calm, and kindly, and pure as that of the freshly gathered vio- 
lets that oft-times sleep upon her bosom. Her voice comes welling up in a 
rich ‘clouded contralto ’—tones that are the very music of the heart. Soft 
as the dreamy lull of chiming waters—low, like the singing of the summer 
winds, steals upon our spirits the sweet music of her words. In her manner, 


460 WOMEN OF THE SOUTH. 


cordial, simple, natural, and self-possessed, she is equally above the parvenu’s 
pretensions, and beyond the necessity of art. She possesses, too, in an emi- 
nent degree, that ‘‘ philosopher’s stone” of pleasing—variety. And, indeed, 
so fresh, so deep, so full of mystical witchery is that “infinite variety,” 
that in any degree to illustrate it, we must borrow the language of a 
modern writer, who, when he would describe a sentiment, which he felt 
to be indescribable, said, “It is like the eye of the woman first loved to 
the soul of the poet!” The world has, for the most part, been bright to 
her, and for this her soul bows in child-like reverence, and pours forth 
its rapturous gratitude to Him who has cast her “lines in pleasant places,” 


66 


and given to her the “goodly heritage” of happiness. Beauty always 
wins its way; it needs neither introduction nor apology, and so every- 
where admirers have gathered around her ‘‘thick as leaves in Vallam- 
brosa,” till her warm, impulsive spirit, feeling the blessedness of being 
loved, carols forth like a bird amid the dawning, its love, its ecstasy, and 
its gratitude. 

As is the woman, so is the volume before us. It is a work that proves 
how the highest cultivation of the intellect may be ennobled by the warm 
sympathies and tender affections of our nature, She writes as the bird 
sings, because its heart is gushing over with melody; she writes as the 
flower blooms, because it is bathed in dew, fanned by the breeze, and 
kindled up by the sunshine, till it bursts its inclosing petals, and lavishes . 
its fragrance and sweet life upon the air.. She receives, as it were by 
intuition, the idea of the ancient Greeks, that the whole universe is a 
“Cosmos” of beauty and order, and this she presents to the reader not 
as a pleasant theory, but a sublime truth. And _ yet, at times, as if to 
prove how truly she is woman, a faint shadow lies upon her heart, and 
is reflected upon the page—telling that she has entered the temple of 
memory, and passing by little graves at the threshold, still guarded by 
love and sorrow,. her spirit treads silently the hallowed chamber of tears. 

Prejudiced by no sectarian dogmas, influenced by no sectional jealousy, 

she opens wide the portals of her heart, and folds the whole world of 
humanity in her loving and kindly embrace. With her a humane electi- 
cism has taken the place of a partial creed—she looks upon all her race 
with an ‘‘infinite pity and infinite love,” and, therefore, the arts, litera- 
ture, society and systems cf all countries, through which she has jour- 
neyed, are kindly viewed and liberally interpreted. Beneath her mental 
wealth the affections exist in proportionate strength, and they come gush- 


L. VIRGINIA FRENCH. 46] 


ing up at every call of sympathy, and tinge all her creations with hues 
of beauty, as the sun flushes the rainbow into life, by waving his light 
through the soft-dropping shower. That reverence and devotion to her 
mother, which shines so beautifully through her daily life, is here as 
tenderly portrayed, and forms an illustrious example to the young of our 
land, for in general they are but too prone to neglect to pay that homage 
and duty to the aged which is only their just and rightful due. The 
woman who has given to America such a daughter as Madame Le Vert, 
should never be forgotten. 

As to the literary claims of the work before us, it is just what it 
purports to be. While it exhibits the strength of the author’s mind, the 
wonderfully retentive power of her memory, and the extent of her acquire- 
ments, it is not overcrowded with the embellishments of standard pens, 
and has nothing of the tinsel of the pedant, or the trickery of the rhe- 
torician. The style is easy, unostentatious, and natural. It is rich in 
incident, the descriptions are vivid, and the anecdotes charmingly told, 
and yet there is no laboring for effect, and a delightful air of sincerity 
pervades the whole, tinged with the couleur de rose of enthusiasm. She 
speaks from a full heart of the beautiful in Nature and Art, of old 
and stirring associations, of social traits, and of the welcome of friends; 
and in all kindness and honesty, endeavors to share with others the 
delightful impressions which she has enjoyed. All that history has chro- 
nicled, and poetry consecrated, come from her pen flushed with the rose- 
glow of her enthusiastic nature. 

It is interesting to compare this work with those of other modern 
voyageurs: with Taylor and Headley, for instance, or with Mrs. Beecher 
Stowe, the piquant ‘‘ Bell Smith,” or rich, rare, and racy Grace Greenwood. 
Especially do I love to contrast the ‘‘ Souvenirs’? with ‘‘ Haps and Mishaps.” 
The one is a saucy, dashing brunette, who provokes you into admiration; the 
other a gentle, graceful blonde, who, ere you are aware, steals your whole 
heart away. There is a wild, almost wicked little sprite of northern antag- 
onism which peers out upon you from behind the “thick-coming” beauties 
of Grace Greenwood’s book, and which reminds one forcibly of that elfish 
little ‘‘ Pearl” who comes peeping at you through the tangled mysteries of 
the ‘Scarlet Letter.” This is a charm in our gifted northern country- 
woman, for it is characteristic—it would not be natural to our southern 
queen, and consequently you see nothing like it. In no one instance is this 
contrast better illustrated than the manner in which each speaks of ‘‘ His 


462 - WOMEN OF THE SOUTH. 


Holiness,” the Pope. Grace has ‘‘ white spirits and grey,” and some of them 
of an elfish origin, half imp, half angel. But M’me Le Vert’s angels are all 
angelic, her fairies are all ‘“‘ good fairies,” even the humblest are merry- 
hearted, kind little ‘“‘ Brownies,” who delight to bear forth blessings from the 
“kind woman who gave bread to the hungry,” in the streets of [gualada. 

Many extracts have been made from the ‘‘Souvenirs,” yet strange to me 
it seems, that the most glowing and eloquent portions of the work have not 
been quoted. The limits of this article will not permit me to make extended 
extracts, yet I cannot forbear mentioning a description of Vesuvius, rich and 
glowing as its own lava, and another of the Coliseum as beautifully sad as is 
that noble ruin itself. Speaking of the latter she says, ‘‘The Coliseum is 
fast crumbling away; Rome has fallen from her early grandeur; but the 
world progresses more proudly than ever, for that fair and glorious land 
beyond the broad Atlantic has been added to the treasures of time—that 
unrivalled land, the birth-place of Washington and of freedom, which seems, 
‘Pallas-like, to have sprung from the head of Jove,’ with all the knowledge 
of departed centuries, and the experience of long buried nations.” Then 
there is a morning on the Pincian Hill, and an evening with the Brownings, 
the glorious portraiture of Moonlight in Venice, and the sweet and sad fare- 
well to Italy, while over the pictures of little Raffaello, the Lazzaroni boy, ° 
and Matilda, the humble protégée of Miss Bremer, no one can restrain their 
tears. But the sweetest sentence in the entire work, because revealing so — 
fully the whole ‘inner life” of the author, is found among her parting 
words, when at Havana she bids adieu to her loved ones in the new world. 
““ Should this,” she writes, ‘“‘be the last line my hand ever traces, may the 
memory of me never awaken a pang in a human heart, but linger around it 
like the aroma of precious flowers.” In this, and the sentences following, 
are embodied her whole creed—love to God, and good will toward men. 
Surely do I believe that the ‘‘Golden Rule” of her life is this, so to live 
‘as never to awaken a pang in any human heart. Oh, that the whole 
world would adopt her blessed creed, then would earth indeed become a 
paradise ! 

Some one has said that “to be a good traveller, argues one no ordinary 
philosopher.” Then is Madame Le Vert a philosopher indeed—the “ world- 
pencilling ” Pfeiffer is not a greater. A south wind seems to be always pass- 
ing over her spirit. Her serenity seems proof against all petty vexations, 
she smiles at occasional imposition, and good-naturedly abides by all the 
“ills” that voyagers “are heir to.” Ever ready, in her urbanity of soul, to 


L. VIRGINIA‘ FRENCH: 463 


recognize the “ good in everything,” she passes over the ill, dwells upon the 
agreeable, and unfolds for us the ‘silver lining” of every cloud that floats 
athwart her sky. She is the true traveller, one who has learned to reverence 
Nature, to appreciate genius, and to love humanity. And more—she has 
nothing of the self-sufficiency and prejudice which distinguish too many of 
our modern voyageurs ; such as are so finely satirized in ‘As You Like It.” 
Says Rosalind, ‘‘farewell, monsieur traveller—look you lisp, and wear 
strange suits, disable all the benefits of your own country; be out of love 
with your nativity; or I will scarce think you have swam in a gondola.” 
On the contrary, travel has only made Madame Le Vert more in love with 
her “‘nativity,’—it has but deepened her sense and pride of nationality. 
She has found the name of an American everywhere an honorable passport. 
it is afresh and hopeful name—its associations are of freedom and progres- 
sion. And so, surrounded by the bold magnificence of Alpine heights, amid 
the solemn ruins of old Imperial Rome, mingling in the royal pageantries of 
England, and of France, she looks back upon her native land, consecrated to 
liberty by the genius of Washington, and exclaims with an exultant joy, “I, 
too, am an American !” 

And it was this deep sense of nationality, as well as the generosity of her 
nature, which prompted her to bestow so liberally from the sales of her work 
to the noble purpose of the Mount Vernon Association. Like the tolling 
bell of every vessel that passes by Mount Vernon, her heart-throbs give out 
a mournful music to the memory of him who slumbers there. And thus it 
will be always with her. She will ever be giving utterance by word or 
action to the beautiful and generous impulses of her nature. The clay of 
which we are made will never be able to check the sweet, gushing fountains 
of her soul. She gathers around her here all that the world can give of 
purity and brightness, and we know that when she passes through the portals 
of the far-away spirit-land, she will bear with her no remembrance of earth 
save those of its beauty and its bloom. 


MARY E. BRYAN. 


Tr was no part of our plan to give prominence to writers who 

are not, in the accepted sense, authors; but Mrs. Bryan has con- 
tributed so essentially to the tone and stamina of southern 
literature, and her productions are so vital with the quality, 
generally considered indigenous to the colder clime and rougher 
soil of our “* Northland,” we feel that it would be defrauding the 
South to withhold a full recognition. 

Mrs. Bryan, the daughter of Major J. D. Edwards, a 
respectable and influential planter, is a native of Florida. Her 
childhood was much given to out-door sports and exercise, to 
horseback rides through the wild woods that surrounded her 
home, and dreamy roamings from one favorite haunt to another: 
—face to face and heart to heart always with Nature. To this 
free life and these healthful habits, she may trace, in a great 
measure, the sturdy vitality which marks her writings. 

Until the age of twelve, she was educated entirely by her 
mother, whose fine endowments eminently fitted her for the 
work. Hoping, then, to secure for her still greater advantages, 
the family removed to the place afterward so well known as 
“Woodland,” near Thomasville, Georgia. With the additional 
facilities afforded by this change, our writer made rapid pro- 
gress in her studies, and, during four years of close application, — 
advanced steadily in culture and discipline. 

~ While yet a mere school-girl, she met her “‘ destiny,” in the 


son of a wealthy planter of Louisiana, whom at sixteen she 
464 


MARY E. BRYAN. 465 


married, and accompanied to his large plantation on the Red 
River, La. 

One year after, under the pressure of painful circumstances, 

she returned to her father’s house, where, in a long interval of 

comparatively aimless life, she began to write for the press. 

Her vigorous articles at once challenged attention, and she 
was soon secured as a regular contributor to the “ Literary and 
Temperance Crusader,” a weekly journal then published in Pen- 
field, Ga. From three to five columns of this paper were filled 
every week with her strong prose and richly imaginative poetry. 
Curiosity was piqued and admiration excited. Many were the 
queries concerning the young writer who, in her secluded home, 
remained quite unconscious of the distinction she was winning. 

In 1859, the “Crusader,” enlarged and improved, was 
removed to the city of Atlanta, Ga., and Mrs. Bryan accept- 
ing the charge of the literary department, left her home, to find. 
in the arduous duties of editorial life full outlet for her energies. 
The vigor and originality which she brought to the work at. 
once gave a distinctive character to the “ Crusader.” Her ver- 
satility enabled her to cater successfully to the diverse tastes of 
the public, and to meet all the contingencies of her position 
with promptness. 

Each issue contained a strong leader, one or more spicy 
articles, and a sprinkling of bonmots—all her own—while not 
unfrequently she would add to these a story and a poem. The 
amount of mental labor which she performed during this year 
is almost incredible. Yet she sustained herself unflaggingly, 
reaping her reward in the success of her efforts and the con- 
sciousness that she was doing what she could, through this 
medium, to speed the right and ban the wrong. Many of her 
poems and pithy essays found their way into northern and 
western periodicals, and were spoken of in terms of high com- 


mendation. 
30 


466 WOMEN OF THE SOUTH. 


At the close of the year 1859, Mrs. Bryan was called home 
by the delicate health of her mother, and finding herself in 
need of rest, determined to resign her position as editor, and 
accept the less responsible one of contributor to the “ Southern 
Field and Fireside.” She had been engaged in this capacity, 
with her usual success, for four months, when the cloud, which 
had so long brooded over her, was lifted, and a way opened for 
her return to her western home. 

While we rejoice in this more cheerful view of the life of the 
woman, we trust that the intellect, which has shown itself, thus 
early, so strong and comprehensive, will continue to demon- 
strate these characteristics in the old way. Already Mrs. 
Bryan has written enough—in her best vein—to fill more than 
one volume; and now that she has retired for a time from 
“regular service,’ we at least hope that she will collect 
these waifs, and give them “a local habitation and a name” in 
literature. 

The specimens* which follow show the remarkable versatil- 
ity of this writer, and may be considered a fair presentation of 
her various styles, if we except the dramatic power revealed in. 
her novelettes, no one of which chances to be in our possession. 

In the essays, ‘“ Hunger is Power,” ‘“ How Shall Women 
Write,” and “Give us Men,” we find a masculine grasp and 
vigor, which it is difficult to reconcile with Mrs. Bryan’s youth, 
and the exquisitely womanly feeling apparent in the sketch, 
“Cutting Robbie’s Hair,” or the tender poem, “My Missing 
Flower ;” while in “ The Hour when we shall Meet Again,” and 
“Lost in the Clouds,” is revealed a lofty and sustained imagi- 
native power which belongs only to the true poet. 

Most excellent gifts has Mrs. Bryan in her keeping. To cut 
and burnish them to their possible perfection, making every 


* The preface will explain why several of these were omitted. 


MARY E. BRYAN. 467 


point to refract and reflect light, is a work of years, which we 
are sure she will not neglect. 

Confirming our own estimate of this youthful genius, we © 
give below the opinion of a distinguished writer in the extreme 
‘South (Florida), and an extract from the eclectic columns of the 
Boston Transcript.” 

Says the southern writer: 


Mrs. Bryan’s versatility of genius is the result of a rare combination 
of perceptive and reflective faculties. The surface of life, with all its 
varying phases, is apparent to her ready perception, while her penetra- 
tive intellect is busy with the pearls that lie beneath. Through all her 
prose, occur flashes of poetic thought, while her poetry is alive with true 
inspiration. In this her idealistic faculty is plainly apparent, as well as her 
love of nature and her power of perceiving in objects termed inanimate, 
that indwelling spirit of conscious life, constituting their higher beauty. As 
an illustration of this, ‘‘ The Naiad’s Gift,” though it has no pretensions to the 
loftiness of conception that distinguishes her more important poems, impresses 
one like a pure and clearly-cut crystal. 


We clip the following from the “ Boston Transcript :” 


Though very youthful, below twenty still, Mrs. Bryan is already 
widely known through the South as editress and writer, being in fact 
one of the favorite authors in that portion of our country, the produc- 
tions of her pen ever winning a hearty reception from a large circle of 
readers. But she has scarcely been heard of among us as yet. When we 
consider her youth, the great disadvantages she must have labored under, 
on an isolated plantation, far from public libraries, and far from, social 
groups of professed literary laborers and artists, it seems to us that her 
poems reveal the aspirations of a richly-endowed and earnest genius, and 
the marks of a good range of culture. 

If with the best models of literary art constantly in view as guides” 
and inspirers, she will strive with that heroic patience of toil which is 
the price of all greatness, to store and perfect her faculties, to extend 
and deepen the grasp of her experience, and to master the plastic secrets 
of style, we predict for her a brilliant and permanent place among the 
gifted and victorious of her sex and land. But our prophecy falters with 


468 WOMEN OF THE SOUTH. 


heavy misgivings when we remember how very few out of the multitude 
of wealthy poetic natures, with happily organized brains and delicately 
attuned sensibilities, possess that indomitable tenacity of will, that per- 
severing, assimilative, self-fired and self-criticising application to study and 
practice, required to conquer the disheartening obstacles in the way of 
literary art and experience, and to win the prize of enduring fame. 
Thousands aspire; hundreds fitfully struggle ; scores meritoriously work; one 
or two here and there, through all consecrating devotedness of toil, succeed. 

_ Nevertheless, genius, as it naturally rallies a noble courage within, 
should always be generously recognized and cheered from without. That 
the fair young authoress of Florida, who sings from amidst the myrtles and 
magnolias of her father’s plantation on the banks of the lovely Ocklos- 
konee, deserves such recognition and encouragement, we think every one 
who reads ‘‘ My Missing Flowers” will admit. 


CUTTING ROBBIE’S HAIR. 


And so this little household flower of ours must be shorn of some of its 
superfluous beauties. Even roses and geraniums must be pruned sometimes, 
and these uncut, silken rings, with the golden sunshine of three summers 
entangled in their meshes, must make the acquaintance of scissors at last. 
Grandpapa says so, and adds that if it is not done shortly, the low plum 
boughs will make another Absalom of Robbie, sometime, when the blue-eyed | 
gander is in hot pursuit. 

There is no denying that the curls need trimming; they are too many and 
too thick, and they make the little head droop uneasily to one side, like a 
half blown moss rose-bud under the weight of its own moss, and straggle 
sometimes into the mouth and eyes. Yes, they must be cut; but it seems 
such a pity! Little curls that we have twined around our fingers when all 
wet from the morning bath; little curls that we have played with while 
singing the evening lullaby ; little curls that our tears have fallen upon when 
the baby eyes were shut in sleep! Ah! only mothers know how dear such 
curls are to mother’s hearts. 

Here are the scissors. Robbie must sit very still now while his hair is 
being cut. Why, sir, why do you smile and look at me so beamingly with 
your blue eyes? How do you know that I am not going to cut off that saucy 
head of yours with these great, sharp, cruel scissors! Oh, holy faith of 
childhood! If we could only trust our God as implicitly as babes do their 


MARY E. BRYAN. 469 


mothers! ‘‘ Except ye become as little children, ye shall not enter the king- 
dow of heaven.” 

Be very still, now, while I comb out these threads of shining floss. The 
mother is the first barber to her boy; no other fingers can perform the sweet 
office so gently ; but when fifteen or twenty years have flown, rougher hands 
- will comb and cut,these locks, all bronzed by suns and winds, and clustering 
above the brow of manhood. The white-aproned, clean-handed barber will 
then arrange them in the latest style of trimming; pomading, perfu-—, no; 
my boy will not be a dandy! by these strong limbs and the sturdy look in 
those eyes—no, 

But to think the down of manhood will gather on this cherry upper-lip 
and on chin and cheek, dimpled as though by the touch of an angel’s finger! 
To think that this round neck of alabaster will be choked up with a man’s 
necktie, and these lily-bud feet will wear high-heeled boots and——. Faugh! 
I will not think ofit. I cannot realize that this fair baby of mine—but three 
summers out of Paradise, and still smiling in his sleep, remembering what | 
the angels said there—shall ever be so metamorphosed. 

And yet the boy’s babyhood is rapidly fleeting, and the severing of these 
ringlets seems like cutting the golden thread that links his infancy to his 
childhood. Oh! Robbie, I can call you “baby” but little longer. You 
blue-eyed elf! you are already rebelling at being treated as one. You had 
rather run, now, after your painted wagon, than lie in your rose-curtained 
crib and hear me sing of the baby whose cradle was the tree-top, and whose 
nurse was the wind. You will not wear your corals, because grandpa says 
they are for babies, not for men ; you had rather hunt hen’s nests than play 
bo-peep ; and when I hold out my arms to you, as you stand in the doorway 
twirling your hat, you turn your head on one side, like a half-tamed bird 
a-perch on one’s finger, while your dancing eyes seem to say, ‘‘ You’ll see— 
you'll see. Jl soon take flight!’ Pretty soon you will not believe in the 
wolf that talked to Red-Riding-Hood, and lose faith in Santa Claus. 

I cannot keep the bud in its sheath; I cannot stay the little bark that 
slips so rapidly down the hurrying stream of life. Soon, the rill will broaden 
into a river, and the realm of roses and sunny skies be passed. And the gold 
of these ringlets shall be dimmed by time, and the roses, perchance, drop 
from these pretty cheeks, and sorrow and sin, it may be, cloud the clear, 
blue heaven of these innocent eyes! 

There! I am crying. How grandpapa would laugh if he canght me, and 
say it was because I wanted the curls to stay and make a girl of his boy. 


A470 WOMEN OF THE SOUTH. 


See! There are tears glistening in these sunny clusters of hair, like dew 
among the golden-blossomed jasmin vines, and your eyes are looking at 
me with wide-opened wonder, and your red lip beginning to quiver with 
ready sympathy. Oh, Robbie! even if the worst should come, and I should 
have to lay this bright head, with its locks of undimmed lustre, under a 
coffin-lid, and see the grass grow between my darling and the bosom he once 
slept upon, I should still thank God for having given him, for having crowned 
my life with the holy blessing of motherhood; for it is such little arms as 
these around our necks, Robbie, that make us feel strong to do and to suffer ; 
it is drawing such little heads as these close, close to our breasts, that keeps 
the hearts of some of us mothers from breaking 

There! that is grandpapa’s step upon the stair—and the task is just com- 
pleted—the little lamb is shorn. Look at this bright heap of glistening silk, 
such as Persian looms never wove into richest fabric. Here is ‘ golden 
fleece’ for you, such as never the lover of Medea sought. Youdid not know 
that such a glittering wealth grew on your little head—did you, blue-eyed 
baby ? 

No, you must not clutch it with those destructive fingers. Go—grand- 
papa is calling you—let him see his little man; but leave me these—the first 
curls cut from my baby’s head. I will put them away to remind me, in 
other days, of his sweet, lost infancy. 


THE HOUR WHEN WE SHALL MEET AGAIN. 


‘When shall it be?” I see thy red lip now 

Tremble with the low spoken question, and thine eyes 
Search mine, until I feel the hot tears flow 

To the repressing lids. I answered then with sighs, 
But I am stronger now—the hour is past, 

And the blue billows of a tropic main 
Break between thee and me. Look up!—at last 

Tl answer thee. Aye, we shall meet again, 


Not in an hour which any tongue of Time— 
Brazen or silver—imay ring on the air, 

Not when the voice of streams in joyful chime 
Summons young April—shaking from her hair 


MARY E. BRYAN. 


Clusters of scented hyacinths, moist and blue 
As thine own dewy eyes; nor when the shade 
Of whispering elms, of summer ripened hue, 
Bathes my hot brow in some sequestered glade ; 
Nor when the autumn clusters of the vine 
Hang purple in the sun, and the faint breath 
Of brookside asters, and the moaning pine 
Alike—and sadly—prophesy of death ; 
Nor when I droop my weary head, as now, 
Upon my hand, beside the winter hearth— 
Shall thy quick step, thy kiss upon my brow 
Make me forget that ever grief had birth. 
No, never more shall sunlight’s golden sheen, 
Nor the pale stars-—a weird and watchful train— 
Nor yet the moonlight—chilly and serene, 
Look on the hour when we shall meet again. 


Yet we shall meet. Listen! One winter day, 

Standing where late the gentians were a-bloom, 
You said when life’s red current ebbed away, 

That we should, like the flowers, sink to a tomb 
Of dust and nothingness upon the breast 

Of earth, whence we had drawn our sustenance, 
And that the sleep would be eternal rest ; 

And then you met my anxious, upward glance 
And smiled, and said that the mysterious scheme, 

Which in the world’s dim ages priests had spun, 
Of life beyond, was but a dotard’s dream. 

And I believed you, for you were the Sun 
To my unbudding soul; but that is past. 

I have talked with my soul in the still hours, 
And, with bared brow, prayed in the temples vast 


Which Nature rears, and when the dreaded power 


Of Death had stamped pale foreheads, I have knelt 
To catch the meaning in the dying eyes; 

And so have solved the mystery ; I have felt 
Your teachings false; the spirit never dies. 


471 


472 WOMEN OF THE SOUTH. * 


There 7s a world beyond, and we shall meet— 
The thought falls like a dead flower on my heart— 
Meet only once—at the dread Judgment Seat, 
Clasp hands, look in each other’s eyes and—part, 
And part forever! Oh! by all the years 
My soul has kept thy memory enshrined, 
By all my burning prayers, and by my tears, 
And by the love to long despair resigned, 
I charge thee let that single glance be kind— 
Full of unuttered love as dying breath 
Breathed out in kisses—when the arms entwin’d 
Shall soon be severed by the grasp of death. 
The gulf that then shall part us, is more deep 
And dark than death. Oh! let that last look be 
One of immortal love, that I may keep 
Its sacred memory through eternity. 


MY MISSING FLOWER. 


The day has glided past us, like a bark— 

A fairy bark on an enchanted sea ; 

And now its gold and crimson pennon fades 
In the far West, and the pale stars look forth 
To tell us that the day has sailed away 

Into the mighty ocean of the Past, 

And shall return no more. 


How fair it was: 
With all June’s balminess in its soft breath, 
And April’s liquid azure in its skies— 
Soft as the eyes of cradled babes that lie 
And smile through transient tears. The earth has waked 
From its long winter dream, and beckons now 
For Spring to come and crown its sun-kissed brow 
With rosy chaplets. She will come, I know; 
Her herald, the swift swallow, has proclaimed 
That she but lingers in the tropic’s bowers 


, MARY E. BRYAN. 473 


To weave a richer garland for her brow,, 

And ere long she will braid the leafless vines 

_ With gem-like flowers, and write her magic name, 
In golden daisies on the emerald turf, 

And yonder skeleton oak shall gaily toss 

Its green and fragrant tresses in the breeze, 

And feathered misers, in the clustered leaves, 

Will hide their jewelled baskets brimmed with pearls, 
Each round, white pearl, filled with a little heart, 
That shall awake to life, to joy and song, 

When April sheds her last, sweet, childish tears 
On May’s maturer bosom. 


Twas a day 
To call up olden memories, for the spell 
Of its mild loveliness soothed the sick soul 
To blissful dreams, and fancy wandered back 
To childhood’s fairy land, and strung again 
Bright memories on the silken thread of thought, 
As erst in youth, beneath the maple’s shade, 
We strung forget-me-nots on silvery grass— 
Each sound that—like a pebble softly dropped 
Into a full and tranquil lake—has broke 
Upon the dreamy quiet of this day— 
The chanticleer’s shrill crowing, the light laugh 
Of gleeful childhood and the western wind, 
Playing a summer tune among the pines, 
Has filled my soul with sadness, vague and sweet, 
Like that which steals across the heart that lists 
To faint, far music at the midnight hour. 
Is it because Spring’s first and halcyon days 
Were childhood’s carnival, that they thus wake 
Such dreams and memories? 


The young Spring marks 
Her earliest footsteps in the violets, sweet 
As her own nectared lip, and I, to-day, 
Have marvelled if this balmy breeze has found 


AT4 


WOMEN OF THE SOUTH. 


Any wild violets in its wanderings 

By stream and field, hill-side and sheltered glen. 
Their breath has mingled strangely with my dreams, 
And their blue eyes have haunted me all day, 
Minding me of this time one year ago, 

And of the tiny hand that brought wild flowers 

And laid them on my open page, and claimed, 

As the reward, a kiss pressed on the lips 

Of dewy crimson that were raised to mine, 

While the small feet stood tip-toe, and the curls 
Were thrown back from the baby-brow, and bright 
Glowed the young cheek, fresh from the kisses sweet, 
Of the spring breezes. 


Ah! my little boy, 
The Spring shall come with all her wealth of flowers, 
Of singing birds, sunshine, and whispering leaves, 
And the blue eyes of violets, “neath the sky, 
Shall open everywhere, but no dear hand, 
Dimpled and soft as a half-budded flower, 
Shall gather Spring’s first offerings from the fields, 
And lay them on the page o’er which I dream ; 
No wondering eyes shall shame my falling tears; 
No red lips kiss them from my burning cheek. 


My little one, I dream, in the long night, 

That thy small fingers on my bosom lie, 
Soothing as was their wont, my throbbing heart ; 
I stretch my arms to clasp thee, and I wake 

To know that thou art far away, and weep | 

In utter loneliness, longing with all 

A mother’s passionate love, for the low voice, 
In scarce articulate murmurs, to repeat 

My name and say some tender, broken words, 
Dying away, as sleep asserts her reign, 

And lays her finger on the parted lips. 

Ah! Spring may pour her vernal treasures forth 
Upon the sunny hills, and fill the trees 


MARY E. BRYAN. A4AT5 


With warbling birds; but mine sings far away— 
I may not hear his song. 


Flower of my life, 
Sole blossom of its blighted spring—my boy 
Whose sunny head a mother’s gentle hand 
Laid on my bosom, while I was almost 
A child myself in years, may this young Spring 
Whose coming quickens now the pulse of earth, 
Kiss no fair roses into life, whose bloom 
Shall vie with those that opened on thy lips, 
And flushed thy dimpled cheeks; may thy pure eyes 
Know but such gentle tears as violets weep, 
And when each night thou kneelest, at this blest hour, 
Beside my mother’s knee, whom thou call’st thine, 
May thy own absent Mary’s name be breathed 
In thy pure orisons, and when sleep shuts 
Thy innocent eyes, may the kind spirit of dreams 
Bring some sweet memory of her, who first 
Oradled thy head upon her beating breast. 


ANNA PEYRE DINNIES. 


Every successful writer is identified with some one produc- 
tion—book, essay, or poem—which either struck fitly upon an 
epoch, or, what is better, touched a chord in the great common 
heart. Hence we call one author, “ Proserpine,” another, 
“The Sinless Child,” another, “‘ Babie Bell,’ another, “ Beulah,” 
another, “ Varana Vane,” another, “ Uncle T’om’s Cabin,” etc. 
Of Mrs. Dinnies, it is always said: “She wrote ‘Ll could have 
stemmed Mis fortunes Tide.’ ” 

Anna Peyre Shackleford, the daughter of Judge Shackle- 
ford, of South Carolina, was born in Georgetown, in that State, 
but removed soon after, with her parents, to Charleston, where 
. she was educated at the school of the Misses Ramsay. These 
gifted daughters of Dr. Ramsay, the historian, seem to have 
possessed either a very happy tact in developing the poetic 
faculty in their pupils, or to have been blessed with an unusual 
proportion of poet pupils. 

In 1830, Miss Shackleford married John C. Dinnies, of St. 
Louis, Missouri, and there resided until their late removal to 
New Orleans. 

Mrs. Dinnies’ poems were first given to the world under the 
signature of “ Moina.” She writes with much force, fervor, 
and tenderness, and never fails to reach the heart of her 
readers. 

In 1846, she published a work entitled “The Floral Year,” 
an elegant, illustrated volume, embracing a hundred poems, 


assorted in groups as bouquets for the twelve months. 
476 


ANNA PEYRE DINNIES. ATT 


THE WIFE. 


I could have stemmed misfortune’s tide, 
And borne the rich one’s sneer, 
Have braved the haughty glance of pride, - 
Nor shed a single tear ; 
I could have smiled on every blow 
From life’s full quiver thrown, 3 
While I might gaze on thee, and know 
I should not be “alone.” 


I could—I think I could have brooked, 
E’en for a time, that thou 

Upon my fading face hadst looked 
With less of love than now ; 

For then I should at least have felt 
The sweet hope still my own 

To win thee back, and, whilst I dwelt 
On earth, not been “alone.” 


But thus to see from day to day, 
Thy brightening eye and cheek, 

And watch thy life-sands waste away, 
Unnumbered, slow, and meek; 

To meet thy smiles of tenderness, 
And catch the feeble tone 

Of kindness, ever breathed to bless, 
And feel I'll be ‘‘ alone.” 


To mark thy strength each hour decay, 
And yet thy hopes grow stronger, 

As filled with heavenward trust, they say, 
Earth may not claim thee longer ; 

Nay, dearest, ’tis too much—this heart 
Must break when thou art gone ; 

It must not be; we may not part ; 
I could not live ‘alone !”’ 


AT8 WOMEN OF THE SOUTH. 


LOVE’S MESSENGERS. 


Ye little stars, that twinkle high 
In the dark vault of heaven, 
Like spangles on the deep blue sky, 
Perhaps to you ’tis given 
To shed your lucid radiance now 
Upon my absent loved one’s brow. 


Ye fleecy clouds, that swiftly glide 
O’er earth’s oft-darkened way, 
Floating along in grace and pride, 
Perhaps your shadows stray 
E’en now across the starry light 
That guides my wanderer forth to-night. 


Ye balmy breezes sweeping by, 
And shedding freshness round, 
Ye too, may haply, as ye fly, 
Withshealth and fragrance crowned, 
Linger a moment, soft and light, 
To sport amid his tresses bright. 


Then stars, and clouds, and breezes bear 
My heart’s best wish to him ; 
And say the feelings glowing there 
Nor time nor change can dim; 
That be success or grief his share, 
My love still brightening shall appear. ~ 


WEDDED LOVE. 


Come, rouse thee, dearest, tis not well 
To let the spirit brood 

Thus darkly o’er the cares that swell 
Life’s current to a flood. 

As brooks, and torrents, rivers, all 

Increase the gulf in which they fall, 


ANNA PEYRE DINNIES. A479 


Such thoughts, by gathering up the rills 
Of lesser griefs, spread real ills 

And with their gloomy shades conceal 
The landmarks Hope would else reveal. 


Come, rouse thee, now: I know thy mind, 
And would its strength awaken ; 
Proud, gifted, noble, ardent, kind— 
Strange thou shouldst be thus shaken ! 
But rouse afresh each energy, 
And be what Heaven intended thee ; 
Throw from thy thoughts this wearying weight, 
And prove thy spirit firmly great; 
I would not see thee bend below 
The angry storms of earthly woe. 


Full well I know the generous soul 
Which warms thee into life— 

Each spring which can its powers control, 
Familiar to thy wife; é 

For deemst thou she had stooped to bind 

Her fate unto a common mind? 

The eagle-like ambition nursed 

From childhood in her heart, had first 

Consumed with its Promethean flame, 

The shrine—then sunk her soul to shame. 


Then rouse thee, dearest, from the dream 
That fetters now thy powers: 

Shake off this gloom—Hope sheds a beam 
To gild each cloud that lowers ; 

And though at present seems so far 

The wished-for goal—a guiding star, 

With peaceful ray, would light thee on, 

Until its utmost bounds be won ; 

That quenchless ray thou’lt ever prove 

In fond, undying wedded love. 


LOUISA 8S. McCORD. 


To combine the essential qualifications of a political writer, 
philosopher, and poet, would seem to require a mind of mascv- 
line calibre and resource: such a mind, certainly, as we have 
been accustomed to think incompatible with the temperaments 
and surroundings of southern women ; yet Mrs. McCord, a native 
of Columbia, South Carolina, has presented to the world these 
several aspects, and won distinction in each. 

Louisa 8. Cheves, daughter of the Hon. Langdon Cheves, a 
leading lawyer and politician of South Carolina, was born in 
that State in 1810. With the advantages of a generous and 
careful culture, she began very early to develop native abilities 
of a high order, as well as aspirations far beyond her years. 

In 1840, she married Col. David J. McCord, a genial, scholarly 
man, who had risen to eminence in his profession of the law. 
Allied thus nearly to men of strong political bias and influence, 
Mrs. McCord’s enthusiastic nature became thoroughly imbued 
with southern patriotism. She carefully examined all questions 
of State policy, and wielded a vigorous pen in defence of what 
she conceived to be its vital principles. 

In 1848, she published “ Sophisms of the Protective Policy,” 
a translation from the French of Basteat, and a volume of poems 
entitled “My Dreams.” In 1851, her tragedy, “Caius 
Gracchus” was issued by a New York house. Since 1849 she 
has been a contributor to “The Southern Quarterly Review,” 


“The Southern’ Literary Messenger,” and “ De Bow’s Review.” 
480 


LOUISA 8S. McCORD. A81 


These essays are characterized, not only. by sharp logic and 
scintillating wit, but by a spirit of earnest, womanly conserva- 
tion. Among the most prominent are “Justice and Fraternity,” 
“The Right to Labor,” “ Diversity of the Races, its bearing 
upon Negro Slavery,” ‘Negro and White Slavery,” “ Enfran- 
chisement of Women,” “Uncle Tom’s Cabin,” “Carey on the 
Slave-trade,” “Negro Mania,” “ Woman and her Needs,” 
“ British Philanthropy and American Slavery,’ “Charity 
which does not Begin at Home,” and “ A Letter to the Duchess 
of Sutherland from a Lady of South Carolina.” 

In discussing the Woman’s Rights movement, she thus 
replies to a proposition of an English review, that ‘a reason 
must be given why anything should be permitted to one person 
and interdicted to another.” “A reason !—a reason why man 
cannot drink fire and breathe water! A scientific answer about 
hydrogen and oxygen will not answer the purpose. These are 
facts, not reasons. Why? Why? Why is anything on God’s 
earth what it is? Can Miss Martineau tell? We cannot. God 
has made it so, and reason, instinct and experience teach us its 
uses. Woman, Nature teaches you yours.” 

Mrs. McCord illustrates her own theories. Residing during 
the winter upon her plantation of Fort Mott, a place of historic 
interest, she attends to the wants of the negroes in the most 
tender manner, and conducts a hospital upon her own grounds ; 
at the same time bringing into play numerous accomplishments 
in the education of her children. 

Mrs. McCord’s poetry is the clear and unpretending utter- 
ance of her nature. Of her tragedy of “ Caius Gracchus” it 
has been justly said :* | 

“Jt is a dramatic poem for the closet, balanced in its philo- 
sophy and argument, Cornelia wisely tempering the democratic 
fervor of her son. Many sound, pithy aphorisms of conduct 


* Duyckinck’s Cyclopedia. 
o1 


482 WOMEN OF THE SOUTH. 


may be extracted from this piece, all expressed with purity and 
precision.” 


CORNELIA AND GRACCHUS. 


GRAOOCHUS. 


Wolves breed not lambs, nor can the lioness 
Rear fawns among her litter. You but chide 
The spirit, mother, which is born from you. 


CORNELIA. 


Curb it, my son, and watch against ambition! 

Half demon and half god, she oft misleads 

With the bold face of virtue. I know well 

The breath of discontent is loud in Rome; 

And a hoarse murmuring vengeance smolders there 
Against the tyrannous rule which, iron shod, 

Doth trample out man’s life. The crisis comes, 
But oh! beware, my son, how you shall force it! 


GRAOOCHUS. 


Nay, let it come, that dreaded day of doom, 

When by the audit of his cruel wrongs 

Heaped by the rich oppressor on the crowd 

Of struggling victims, he must stand condemned 
To vomit forth the ill-got gains which gorge 

His luxury to repletion. Let it come! 

The world can sleep no longer. Reason wakes 

To Know man’s rights, and forward progress points. 


CORNELIA. 


By reason led, and peaceful wisdom nursed, 
All progress is for good. But the deep curse 
Of bleeding nations follows in the track 

Of mad ambition, which doth cheat itself 

To find a glory in its lust for rule ; 

Which, piling private ill on public wrong, 


LOUISA 8. McCORD. 483 


Beneath the garb of patriotism hides 

Its large-mawed cravings; and would thoughtless plunge 
To every change, however riot waits, 

With feud intestine, by mad uproar driven, 

And red-eyed murder to reproach the deed. 

Death in its direst forms doth wait on such. 


GRACOHUS. 


Man lives to die, and there’s no better way 

To let the shackled spirit find its freedom 

Than in a glorious combat ’gainst oppression. 

I would not grudge the breath lost in the struggle. 


CORNELIA. 


Nor I, when duty calls. I am content, 

May but my son prove worthy of the crisis; 
Not shrinking from the trial, nor yet leaping 
Beyond the marked outline of licensed right ; 
Curbing his passions to his duty’s rule; 
Giving his country all—life, fortune, fame— 
And only clutching back, with miser’s care, 
His all untainted honor. But take heed! 

The world doth set itself on stilts, to wear 

The countenance of some higher, better thing. 
Tis well to seek this wisely ; but with haste 
Grasping too high, like child beyond its reach, 
It trips in the aspiring, and thus falls 

To lowlier condition. Rashness drags 
Remorse and darkest evil in her train. 

Pause, ere the cry of suffering pleads to heaven 
Against this fearful mockery of right ; 

This license wild, which smothers liberty 
While feigning to embrace it. 


GRACOHUS. 
Thought fantastic 
Doth drapery evil thus with unsketched ills. 
No heart-sick maid nor dream-struck boy am I, 


484 


WOMEN OF THE SOUTH. 


To scare myself with these. There's that in man 
Doth long to rise by nature. Ever he, 
Couching in lethargy, doth wrong himself. 


CORNELIA. 


Most true, and more. I reverence human mind ; 
And with a mingled love and pride I kneel 

To nature’s inborn majesty in man. ; 

But as I reverence, therefore would I lend 

My feeble aid this mighty power to lead 

To its true aim and end. Most often ’tis 
When crowds do wander wide of right, and fall 
To foul misuse of highest purposes, 

The madness of their leaders drags them on. 

I would not check aspiring, justly poised; 

But rather bid you ‘‘on,” where light is clear, 
And your track plainly marked. I scorn the slang 
Of “ereedy populace,” and “dirty crowd,” 
Nor slander thus the nature which I bear. 

Men in the aggregate not therefore cease 

Still to be men; and where untaught they fall, 
It is a noble duty to awake 

The heart of truth, that slumbers in them still. 
It is a glorious sight to rouse the soul, 

The reasoning heart that in a nation sleeps! 
And wisdom is a laggard at her task, 

When but in closet speculations toiling, 

She doth forget to share her thought abroad 
And make mankind her heir. 


MARY ELIZABETH LEH. 


Mary E. Lee was born at Charleston, South Carolina, on 
the 23d of March, 1813. She belonged to an old family of 
high social rank and intellectual culture. Her uncle, Judge 
. Thomas Lee, may be remembered by all as a man of note and 
influence. 

On account of an extremely delicate organization, and that 
fine sensibility which belongs to the poetical temperament, Miss 
Lee was carefully shielded from all rough contact with the 
world, not even being allowed to enter school until she was ten 
years of age. She was then placed in charge of Mr. A. Bolles, 
a successful teacher of young ladies, in Charleston. The advan- | 
tages of the school-room seemed to unfold to her a new world | 
of zesource. Books became her passion. She made rapid pro- 
gress in her studies, and gathered a store of varied knowledge 
for future use. About this time, she began to develop also 
great aptitude for the acquisition of languages; but her health 
gave way under the pressure of close application, and she was 
obliged to pursue a less systematic and rigorous course within 
the quiet precincts of her own home. But no obstacles could 
cheek her advance. 

At the age of twenty she became a contributor to “The 
Rose Bud,” a periodical edited by Mrs. Gilman, and gradually 
growing into marked favor with the public. Her compositions | 
in prose and verse, were invoked by most of the popular jour- 
nals of the day. 


Among these contributions, “The Lone Star,” ‘“ Correggio’s 
485 


486 WOMEN OF THE SOUTH. 


Holy Family,” “The Hour of Death,” “The Death Bed of 
Prince Henry,” and the “ Blind Negro Communicant,” afford 
some of the best characteristics of her style. ; 

About this time her first volume, entitled. “Social Even- 
ings, or Historical Tales for Youth,” was published by the 
_ Massachusetts School Library Association, and proved to be 
one of the most attractive in the collection. 

Determined to maintain herself in strict independence, she 
continued to write for northern and southern periodicals, until 
her health utterly failed. That she was possessed of an inde- 
fatigable and truly heroic spirit, may be learned from the fact 
that when her right hand became helpless from paralysis, she 
grasped the pen firmly with the left hand, acquired a new style 
of chirography, and abated not a jot of her labor. 

After years of slow physical torture, Miss Lee died gently 
and hopefully in the midst of her family, at Charleston, Sep- 
tember 23, 1849. In 1851, a volume of her poems was pub- 
lished, with an interesting and tender tribute from the pen of 
the Rev. Dr. Gilman. 


THE POETS. 


The poets—the poets— 
Those giants of the earth: 

In mighty strength they tower above 
The men of common birth ; 

_ A noble race—they mingle not 

Among the motley throng, 

But move with slow and measured steps 
To music-notes along. 


The poets—the poets— 

What conquests they can boast! 
Without one drop of life-blood spilt, 

They rule a world’s wide host ; 


MARY ELIZABETH LEE. 487 


Their stainless banner floats unharmed 
From age to lengthened age ; 

And history records their deeds 
Upon her proudest page. 


The poets—the poets— 
How endless is their fame! 

Death, like a thin mist, comes, yet leaves 
No shadow on each name ; 

But as yon starry gems that gleam 
In evening’s crystal sky, 

So have they won, in memory’s depths, 
An immortality. 


The poets—the poets— 
Who doth not linger o’er 
The glorious volumes that contain 
Their bright and spotless lore? 
They charm as in the saddest hours, 
Our richest joys they feed ; 
And love for them has grown to be 
A universal creed. 


The poets—the poets— 
Those kingly minstrels dead, 
Well may we twine a votive wreath 
Around each honored head : 
No tribute is too high to give 
Those crowned ones among men. 
The poets! the true poets! 
Thanks be to God for them! 


488 


WOMEN OF THE SOUTH. 


AN EASTERN LOVE SONG. 


Awake, my silver lute ; 
String all thy plaintive wires, 
And as the fountain gushes free, 
So let thy memory chant for me 
The theme that never tires. 


Awake, my liquid voice; 
Like yonder timorous bird, 
Why dost thou sing in trembling fear 
As if by some obtrusive ear 
Thy secret should be heard ? 


Awake, my heart—yet no! 
As Cedron’s golden rill, 
Whose changeless echo singeth o’er 
Notes it had heard long years before, 
So thou art never still. 


My voice! my lute! my heart! 
Spring joyously above | 
The feeble notes of lower earth 
And let thy richest tones have birth 
Beneath the touch of love. 


THE LAST PLACE OF SLEEP. 


Lay me not in greenwood lone 

Where the sad wind maketh moan, 

Where the sun hath never shone, 
Save as if in sadness ; 

Nor, I pray thee, let me be 

Buried ’neath the chill, cold sea 

Where the waves, tumultuous, free, 
Chafe themselves to madness. 


MARY ELIZABETH LEE. — 489 


But in yon inclosure small, 
Near the churchyard’s mossy wall, 
Where the dew and sunlight fall, 

I would have my dwelling; 
Sure there are some friends, I wot, 
Who would make that narrow spot 
Lovely as a garden plot 

With rich perfumes swelling. 


GEORGIANA A. HULSE McLEOD. 


Mrs. McLeop, daughter of Dr. Isaac Hulse, of the United 
States Navy, and grand-daughter of Rev. Dr. George Roberts, 
of Baltimore, was born near Pensacola, Florida, at the naval 
hospital, of which her father was then surgeon. While yet a 
mere infant, she was left an orphan. She very early evinced a 
taste for literature, and contributed to several periodicals under 
various noms de plume. 

Soon after completing her school education, she produced 
“¢ Sunbeams and Shadows,” which was brought out by Messrs. 
Appleton of New York. 

In 1858, she married the Rev. Dr. Alexander W. McLeod, 
of Halifax, Nova Scotia, where for a time they resided. She 
then gave to the world her second volume, “ Ivy-Leaves from 
the Old Homestead.” This was soon followed by “Thine and 
Mine,” which was published by Messrs. Derby & Jackson. 

Mrs. McLeod’s last book evidences steady growth and cul- 
ture, and has been received with much favor. All the works 
of this writer are marked by fine sensibility and high-toned 
morality. Her second book, “ Ivy-Leaves,” is garnished with 
poems, some of which indicate a true poetic element. 

It is said that Mrs. McLeod is widely known and loved for 
her pure womanliness and exalted piety, as well as her graces 
of mind and person. She is presiding, at present, over “ The 
Southern Literary Institute,” of Baltimore, Md. This institu- 
tion is designed for young ladies exclusively, and is rapidly ris- 

ing in popular favor. 
490 : 


GEORGIANA A. HULSE McLEOD. 491 


LOU LYNDSAY’S BRIDAL. 


Very lovely the young girl seemed to the loving eyes that looked upon 
her that Christmas eve. The solemn words, and the response given in 
clear, manly tones, seemed to have a subduing effect. The varying color 
upon her cheek satisfied even Nurse Grantham’s ideas of propriety. 

She was strangely quiet for a time, but back to her eye came the 
dancing, mirthful light of yore, and the smile and playful jest were her 
very own. There was snow lying deep upon the ground without, but the 
storm had ceased, and down upon the glittering covering the earth now 
wore, myriads of stars gleamed brightly, and soon the moon, in its clear, 
silvery light, shed abroad upon the earth a blessing. 

As upon Judea’s plains, in years long ago, it shone where the watch- 
ing shepherds dwelt, heralding the light that was to dawn upon a waking 
world—the light for which God’s Israel looked and prayed—a light not 
to them only, but to shine into the hearts of the great family of man, 
Jew and Gentile, Greek and Barbarian. Light above, below, without, 
within, and joy that was to be not for a season only, dwelt in many a 
home and heart upon Lou Lyndsay’s bridal eve. 


SUNBEAMS AND SHADOWS. 


The fire hath gone out on my lonely hearth; its last embers faded as I 
watched! Without, the darkness reigns, and the snow lieth heavily on the 
earth, even as those sorrows which have fallen on my heart, and blanched 
my hair to whiteness. 

The loved of my youth are gone to the far-off land, or in homes brighter 
than my own, they know not of my desolation. Their voices come around 
me, echoing from the past in the deep still night, and I turn to meet them, 
but the shadows mock me! 

Here are the bright tresses which I severed, and from their jewelled 
cases look forth the joyous semblances of those missing from my side! My 
fairy darlings! ye who made sunlight in earth’s darkest paths, why have ye 
fled from my idolizing love? My noble May! my little Rose! where are 
your young heads pillowed? Alas! curtained by the night, cradled in the 
storm, beneath the cold damp earth! and I, who yearn to shelter you, am left 
alone! No, not alone—God is still with me; and he to whom in girlhood I 


492, WOMEN OF THE SOUTH. 


gave my trusting faith, is left me still! May our Father forgive the weak- 
ness of a mother’s stricken heart. May He help me to remember ever, that 
my treasures are safely housed, where no chill wind can reach them—where 
sorrow shall never find them, and where, in the day of his coming, the 
glorified spirits shall be joined again unto the earthly part now slumbering ! 
I will hush my sighs, and oh, what need of tears has one who has added 
two bright angels to the choir that swell the anthems of triumph near the 
throne! I will lay me down to rest, trusting to Him, who doeth what is 
right, and who, ere long, will give us one bright home together. 


THE MOTHER’S PRAYER. 


Gently in my arms they laid him, 
Like a lily pure, and fair, 
Violets ‘neath the dark fringed eyelids, 
Silken rings of soft, brown hair ; 
Beautiful for artist’s limning, 
Fragile as a new-born flower, 
Oh! how earnest was my prayer, 
For my darling in that hour. 


All earth’s richest, and its rarest, 
Buds of beauty, gems of light, 

Treasures won by art, or science, 
Were as nothing in my sight; 

Not for all would I have bartered, 
This most beauteous, precious gift; 

Scarcely e’en to bless the giver, 
Could my eyes to heaven I lift. 


All that earthly love could lavish 
On its dearest, and its best, 
Did my heart already garner, 
For the baby on my breast; 
In an hour, I lived a life-time, 
Oh, how bright a waking dream! 
Passed from infancy to manhood, 
In all hearts he reigned supreme. 


GEORGIANA A. HULSE McLEOD. 493 


Woe is me! How soon the darkness, 
Hid the picture from my sight; 

Little thought I that the morrow, 
Would for me be as the night; 

Thankless heart, forgetting blindly, 
That no idols we must make— 

Brief my dreaming, crushing sorrow, 
Taught me from such dream to wake. 


Paler drooped my pure white lily, 
Far too pure for earthly stain, 

In the land of living flowers, 
In shall be raised up again ; 

Stricken heart, and lonely mother, 
Look I to a far off shore, 

Thad prayed—‘ Bless him my fatuer,” 
So he blessed him evermore! 


PASSERS BY. 


How many changing faces 
My wand’ring glances meet, 
As sitting at the window 
I look out upon the street. 
The rain is falling coldly 
As sorrow on the heart, 
And all in shadow lieth 
The busy, crowded mart. 
But eager, hurried footfalls 
Are on the pave below, 
And care-worn, thoughtful faces 
Pass ever to and fro. 
A loitering happy school-boy, 
Now from my sight is gone, 
But I can hear him whistling 
Of ‘‘ The old folks at home.” 
Then, I begin to wonder 
If his home is like to ours; 


494 


WOMEN OF THE SOUTH. 


If so, he has a happy one, 
A pathway full of flowers. 
Now shouting joyously they come, 
A merry thoughtless band 
Just free (for it is mid-day), 
From the school-house near at hand. . 
It does me good to see them 
Untouched as yet by grief, 
And so thinks one who seemeth 
With me a watch to keep. 
x * x * * 


The tramp of steeds comes slowly, 
I hear it nearer now, 

Some heart I ween is stricken, 
Some idol is laid low! 

A little child they’re bearing 
Unto its dreamless rest, 

Why weep they wildly, more than we? 
The guileless spirit’s blest. 

Slowly, more slowly, pass ye, 
And lay it gently down, 

Tis but the earthly part ye bear, 
The glorious soul is flown. 

Look up! as though a message 
Is sent you from on high, 

The sun that cloud is parting, 


The blue is in the sky! 
* * * * 2 


Gone, the mourners, and the gleam-light, 
That for a moment given, 
Seemed to win the sorrowing spirits, 
To turn their eyes to heaven. 
Friendly, smiling, well-known faces, 
With answering smile I greet, 
As many a lesson learning, 
I look out on the street. 


VER en eb avy ENOTES 


Mary Jane Wrinpte, a native of Wilmington, Delaware, was 
born on the 16th February, 1825. Deprived soon after her 
birth of a father’s care, she, together with a large family circle, 
became entirely dependent upon the exertions of her mother ; 
but, notwithstanding the disadvantages of her position, Miss 
Windle applied herself assiduously to her studies, and was soon 
familiar with the most important elements of modern. literature. 

She then became an occasional contributor to the public 
press. Her compositions in prose and poetry bore the stamp of 
decided talent, and soon won for her a distinctive rank among 
the periodical writers of the day. Her graceful and delicate » 
sketches, especially, became so widely popular, that she was at 
last prevailed upon to collect the best of them and reprint them 
in book form. This volume appeared in 1850, and reached a 
large circulation. | 

_ Miss Windle’s most marked characteristics, as a writer, are 
affluence of expression, delineative power, and exceeding purity 
of taste. Though a sufferer from ill health, she is ever faithful 
to literary pursuits, and mindful as well of all social and 
domestic claims. 


ALICE HEATH’S INTERVIEW WITH CROMWELL. 


The apartment was an ante-room attached to the spacious bed-chamber 


formerly belonging to the king. It was luxuriously furnished with all the 
495 


A96 WOMEN OF THE SOUTH. 


appliances of ease and elegance suitable to a royal withdrawing-room. 
Tables and chairs of rose-wood, richly inlaid with ivory and mother-of-pearl, 
were arranged in order around the room; magnificent vases of porcelain 
decorated the mantel-piece; statues from the chisel of Michael Angelo stood 
in the niches; and pictures in gorgeous frames hung upon the walls. 


There, near a table, on which burned a single shaded lamp, standing 


upright in the attitude of prayer, from which he had just been interrupted, 
stood the occupant. For an instant, as she lingered near the door, and looked 
upon the figure which bore so strongly the impress of power, and felt that on 
his word hung the fate of him for whom she had come to plead, she already 
feared for the success of her mission, and would fain almost have retracted 
her visit. But remembering the accents of prayer she had heard while wait- 
ing without, she considered that her purposed appeal was to the conscience 
of one whom she had just surprised, as it were, in the presence of his Maker, 
and took courage to advance. 

‘‘May I pray thee to approach and be seated, madam, and unfold the 
object of this visit,” said Cromwell, in a thick, rapid utterance, the result 
of his surprise, as he waved his visitor to a chair. ‘‘ At that distance, 
and by this light, I can hardly distinguish the features of the lady who 
so inopportunely and unceremoniously honors me with her presence.” 

Immediately advancing, she threw back her hood, and offering him 
her hand, said: “It is Alice Heath, the daughter of your friend, General 
Lisle.”’ 

Cromwell’s rugged countenance expressed the utmost surprise, as he 
awkwardly strove to assume a courtesy foreign to his manner, and 
exchange the first ungracious greeting for a more cordial welcome. 

With exceeding tact, Alice hastened to relieve his embarrassment, by 
falling back into the chair he had offered, and at once declaring the pur- 
pose of her visit. 

‘General Cromwell,” she began, in a voice sweetly distinct, “you 
stand high in the eyes of man, not only as a patriot, but a strict and 
conscientious servant of the Most High. As such, you have been the 
main instrument in procuring the doom now hanging in awful expectation 
over the head of him who once tenanted, in the same splendor that now sur- 
rounds yourself, the building in which I find you. Methinks his vacation of 
these princely premises, and your succession thereunto, renders you scarcely 
capable of being a disinterested advocate for his death; since, by it, you 
become successor to all the pomp and power formerly his. Have you asked 


7 


MARY J. WINDLE. AQT 


yourself the question whether or no ‘motives of self-agerandizement have 
tainted this deed of patriotism, or sullied this act of religion?” 


“Your language is unwarrantable and unbecoming, madam,” said Crom- 





_ well, deadly pale and trembling violently; “‘it is written ” 

_ “Excuse me,” said Alice, interupting him ; “you think it uncourteous and 
even impertinent that I should intrude upon you with a question such as I 
_ but now addressed to you. But, General Cromwell, a human life is at stake, 
and that the life of no ordinary being, but the descendant of a race of kings. 
Nay, hear me out, sir, I beg of you. Charles Stuart is about to die an awful 
and a violent death; your voice has condemned him—your voice can yet 
save him. If it be your country’s weal that you desire, that object has been 
already sufficiently answered by the example of his trial; or, if it is to 
further the cause of the Lord of Hosts that you place yourself at the head 
of Britain in his place, be assured that he who would assert his power by 
surrounding himself with a pomp like this, is no delegate of One who com- 
missioned Moses to lead his people through the wilderness, a sharer in the 
common lot, and a houseless wanderer like themselves. Bethink you, there- 
fore, what must be the doom of him, who, for the sake of ambition and 
pride—in order that he might, for the brief space of his life, enjoy luxury 
and power—under the borrowed name, too, of that God who views the 
act with horror and detestation, stains his hands with parricidal blood. 
Yes, General Cromwell, for thy own soul’s, if not for mercy’s sake, I entreat 
thee, in whom alone lies the power, to cause Charles Stuart’s sentence to be 
remitted.” 

After a few moments’ hesitation, during which Alice looked in his face 
with the deepest anxiety, and awaited his answer, he said : 

‘““Go to, young woman, who presumest to interfere between a judge 
raised up for the redemption of England, and a traitor king, whom the Lord 
hath permitted to be condemned to the axe.. As my soul liveth, and as He 
liveth, who will one day make me a ruler in Israel, thou hast more than the 
vanity of thy sex, in hoping by thy foolish speech to move me to lift up my 
hand against the decree of the Almighty. Truly ”»—— 

‘““ Nay, General Cromwell,” said Alice, interrupting him, as soon as she 
perceived that he was about to enter into one of his lengthy and pointless 
harangues, ‘‘nay, you evade the matter both with me and with the con- 
science whose workings I have for the last few moments beheld in the dis- 
order of your frame. Have its pleadings—for to them J look, and not to 

32 


498 WOMEN OF THE SOUTH. 


any eloquence of mine own—been of no avail. Will it please you to do aught 
for the king ?” 

- “Young lady,” replied Cromwell, bursting into tears, which he was occa- 
sionally wont to do, ‘‘a man like me, who is called to perform great acts in 
Israel, had need to be immovable to feelings of human charities. Think you 
not it is painful to our mortal sympathies to be called upon to execute the 
righteous judgments of Heaven, while we are yet in the body! And think 
you, when we must remove some prime tyrant, that the instruments of his 
removal can at all times view their part in his punishment with unshaken 
nerves? Must they not even at times doubt the inspiration under which 
they have felt and acted? Must they not occasionally question the origin of 
that strong impulse which appears the inward answer to prayer for direction 
under heavenly difficulties, and, in their disturbed apprehensions, confuse 
even the responses of truth with the strong delusions of Satan? Would 
that the Lord would harden my heart, even as he hardened that of ”—— 

“Stop, sir,” said Alice, interrupting him ere his softened mood should 
have passed away, ‘‘utter not such a sacrilegious wish. Why are the kindly 
sympathies which you describe implanted in your bosom, unless it be to pre- 
vent your ambition from stifling your humanity? The rather encourage 
them, and save Charles Stuart. Let your mind dwell upon the many traits 
of nobleness in his character, which might be mentioned with enthusiasm, 
aye, and with sorrow, too, that they should be thus sacrificed.” _ 

“The Most High, young woman, will have no fainters in spirit in his ser- 
vice; none who turn back from Mount Gilead for fear of the Amalekites. 
To be brief, it waxes late; to discuss this topic longer is but to distress us 
both. Charles Stuart must die: the mouth of the Lord hath spoken it.” 

As he spoke, he bowed with a determined but respectful reverence, and 
when he lifted up his head, the expression of his features told Alice that the 
doom of the king was sealed. 

‘‘T gee there is no hope,” said she, with a deep sigh, as Cromwell spoke 
these words in a tone of decision which left her no further encouragement, 
and with a brevity so unusual to him. Nor was his hint to close the inter- 
view lost upon her. ‘‘No hope!” she repeated, drawing back. ‘I leave 
you then, inexorable man of iron, and may you not thus plead in vain for 
mercy at the bar of God!” | 

So saying, she turned and rejoined her husband, who remained in wait- 
ing for her ; they returned together to Lisle’s house, 


WRITERS NOT YET AUTHORS, 


Tue brief sketches that follow are of writers who have given 
to the world no collection of their works, but whose fugitive 
pieces have been variously noticed. , 


JANE T. WORTHINGTON, 


Wife of Dr. F. A. Worthington, of Ohio, and daughter of 
Colonel Lomax, of the United States Army, was a native 
of Virginia, and descended from a distinguished family of 
that State. By the frequent changes of residence involved 
in military service, she was afforded large opportunities 
for observation and social and intellectual culture, but she 
always retained a strong attachment for her native State, and 
nearly all her writings, in prose and verse, appeared in the 
‘Southern Literary Messenger,’ of Richmond. Her compo- 
sitions—her essays especially—are marked by good sense and 
ereat womanly delicacy. Her poems have a graceful simplicity, 
in keeping with her character. She died in 1847, lamented by 
a large circle of appreciative friends. 


THE POOR. 


Have pity on them, for their life 
Is full of grief and care: 
You do not know one half the woes 
The very poor must bear ; 
499 


500 


WOMEN OF THE SOUTH. 


You do not see the silent tears 
By many a mother shed, 

As childhood offers up the prayer, 
‘* Give us our daily bread.” 


And sick at heart she turns away 
From the small face wan with pain, 
And feels that prayer has long been said 
By those young lips in vain. 
You do not see the pallid cheeks 
Of those whose years are few, 
But who are old in all the griefs 
The poor must struggle through. 


Their lot is made of misery _ 
- More hopeless day by day, 


And through the long cold winter nights 


Nor light nor fire have they ; 

But little children, shivering, crouch * 
Around the cheerless hearth, 

Their young hearts weary: with the want 
That drags the soul to earth. 


Oh, when with faint and languid voice 
The poor implore your aid, 

It matters not how, step by step, 
Their misery was made ; 

It matters not if shame had left 

~ Its shadow on their brow— 

It is enough for you to see 
That they are suffering now. 


Deal gently with these wretched ones, 
Whatever wrought their woe, 

For the poor have much. to tempt and test 
That you can never know: 


R. JACOBUS. 501 


Then judge them not, for hard indeed 
Is their dark lot of care; 

Let Heaven condemn, but human hearts 
With human faults should bear. 


And when within your happy homes 
You hear the voice of mirth, 

When smiling faces brighten round 
The warm and cheerful hearth, 

Let charitable thoughts go forth 
For the sad and homeless one, 

And your own lot more blest will be, 
For every kind deed done. 

Now is the time the very poor 
Must often meet your gaze— 

Have mercy on them in these cold 
And melancholy days. 


R. JACOBUS. 


Mrs. Jacobus’ contributions, of prose and verse, to the » 
“ Home Journal,” “ Fitzgerald’s City Item,” and other papers, 
have gained her many admirers and an honorable rank in the 
literary world. Her stories in the “ Home Journal,” with which 
the public is most familiar, evince mental poise and vigor, and 
send home effective moral truths. She was born on the 22d of 
February, 1832, in Cambridge, South Carolina. Her mother is 
a native of Bordeaux, France. Mrs. Jacobus’ earliest recollec- 
tions are of a luxurious and happy home, which slipped from 
the possession of her parents in the midst of many reverses. In 
this state of things, the family removed, in 1844, to Florida. 

The wild life that followed our arrival in Florida,” she says, 


502 | WOMEN OF THE SOUTH. 


“was the happiest period of my life; twenty miles distant, on 
either side, from any human habitation, we roamed the woods, 
waded the depths of the beautiful sound, with no human eye 
to prescribe our freedom, no social conventionalisms to set bounds 
to our wild enjoyments. Yet even in this grand solitude was the 
worship (Jewish) of our forefathers observed the same as when 
standing beneath the magnificent dome of Israel’s God. As 
each Friday twilight signalled the approach of our holy Sabbath, 
jovial voices were hushed, labor was suspended, and, gathering 
round the family altar, with bowed heads and clasped hands, we 
listened to fervent prayers made doubly solemn by our surround- 
ings.” 

After two years passed in this way, the family removed to 
New Orleans, where our writer entered school, and, pursuing 
her education under the careful and generous supervision of her 
brother, Judge Heydenfeldt, graduated after five years at Mont- 
gomery, Ala. She then married Mr. Jacobus, and became so _ 
devoted to a domestic circle of her own, as to shut out any but 
the most occasional literary claim. 


THE SECOND WIFE. 


He could not seem more life-like were he standing before me—the same 
hard look on his face; the same icy light in his cold, grey eye; the broad 
brow incasing more thought than lives in the minds of fifty other clever men. 
There is a peculiar,charm about Hamilton, either in his painted semblance or 
in himself, standing or walking, with the cold look freezing over his face, or 
the smile which only Hamilton can smile, beaming and breaking like a 

beautiful sun-tinted cloud over a misty, winter sky. Then I turn to Zalia, 
as well in thought asin sight. Zalia, with her gentle eyes—every way gentle 
Save one quiet shadow—saying more expressively than her lips could, “I 
will love, I will struggle, I will forbear, but I must be beloved.” How that 
soft face brightened under Hamilton’s smile—the smile that won her, and the 
hard look that——, Ah! well, it is all past now. The wind tossed the 


R. JACOBUS. 503 


flowers, the untimely frost spangled the leaves with a false beauty, and time 
swept everything away but the gloomy waste; and that remains as cold, and 
stark, and dreary, as though no bright flowers had ever burst through the 
grassy carpet, or no green leaves or young buds had ever sprung or bloomed 
there, under the bright sunlight of heaven. 

Hamilton was what the world called a handsome man, though his real 
attraction verged more on a certain kind of fascination than beauty. He 
would invariably attract and repulse in turn: the one inspiring a kind of 
' gratitude, and the other an unaccountable feeling of reverential awe. Ool- 
lege boys walked a block out of their way to miss him;. and young sprouts, 
with red vests, diamond collar-pins, and misapplied Latin quotations always 
- on hand, eschewed his presence as an extended toad-fish would the broadside 
of a voracious shark. 

Hamilton did not love his first wife, though she was good and beautiful ; 
loving him with an intensity that caused her to thank God when the seal of 
death was upon her—for she knew he did not love her. He experienced a 
sort of pleasure in letting her know it; though, had he known the pain that 
knowledge gave her, he would have been a little less cold, and much more 
kind. But he did not, and day after day went on his same cold, loveless 
track, until the doctor’s buggy rolled noiselessly away, the green blinds 
closed, silent figures passed in and out, and the wax candles at the head and 
feet burned dimmer and dimmer on that quiet, upturned face, looking 
heavenward with a faint, shadowy smile, as though it were asking for God’s 
love now, nor wished for Hamilton’s. ' , 

Where was he then? Standing beside that quiet form, with a harder and 
a colder look on his stern face than ever it wore before. He stood there, not 
through love, but as a penalty, feeling strangely fascinated to undergo the 
punishment it entailed; and over and over again a voice in his heart whis- 
pered, ‘‘ You have done it,” while the soft smile, which never varied, always 
answered, ‘‘ You are forgiven.” Hamilton started as the snowy covering 
’ moved, and little Charley crept from beneath the shroud, and sat on a chair 
by his mother’s side, watching her with a look of pain seldom seen on a 
child’s face. 

‘You are not sorry,” said he, looking up with his father’s same hard, icy 
look on his little face. ‘‘ You would rather read, than talk to her; and now 
you may read all day and night—she will never talk to you again, and I am 
glad of it.” 


‘‘ Leave the room, sir,” said Hamilton, fiercely. 


504 - WOMEN OF THE SOUTH. 


A figure rose from the shadow of the heavy curtains, and, approaching 
the child, took him gently by the hand. ‘‘ No, no, Zalia, please; I want to 
stay. I love mamma better than he does.” 

Hamilton sprang toward the child, but Zalia stood between them, and 
the next moment the door closed, leaving the husband alone with his dead 
wife, his passionless heart, and cold eyes, and the voice that never ceased 
whispering, ‘‘ You have done it.” 


THE WIND. f 


Hark! as it sweeps the darkened streets, 
Lashing the sands 

That whirling rise, athwart the skies, 
In hazy strands. 

Hark! how it shrieks, in its maddened freaks, 
List to the leaves, 

As it dashes off, with a howl and a scoff, 
Thro’ the tangling trees. 


List! as its knell wakens the bell 
With a scream and a start, 

As the loud peals tell where the fiery hell 
Is playing its part. 

Wildly it stamps the burning planks 
In a wreath of flame, 

While its horrible laugh splinters in half ° 

The tottering frame. 


Madly it games with the lurid flames 
In terrible love ; 
Screaming! it plays with the reddening blaze 
Flaming above. 
With fiendish hands it scatters the brands 
In demonish glee, . 
Then scoffingly flings its sightless wings 
Over the sea. 


R. JACOBUS. 


Mark! how the clouds, in purple shrouds, 
Blacken the rays, 

As its terrible touch, with a yell and a rush, 
Wakens the waves. 

They shiver and part, with a moan and a start, 
Stung by its breath, 

Then roaring they dash, with a terrible crash, 
Whirling in death. 


On thro’ the night, without beacon or light, 
They struggle and mourn, 

And writhingly kiss, with a maddened hiss, 
The surging foam. . 

With a sudden start, exulting they part, 

. On the breast of the blast, 

*Gainst the blackened sky, they shrieking espy, 
A tottering mast. 


See, see, as she rides, her quivering sides 
Fearfully cave ; | 

Now, bravely she floats, o’er the gaping throats 
Of the lashing wave. 

Now poised on high.. Hark! to the cry, 
As the waves unlock, 

Then madly lash, with a terrible crash, 
And a fearful shock. 


The ship! see! fast, the reeling mast 
Splinters in two, 

As the mad wind’s breath hurries to death 
The fated crew. 

Despairing and wild, the mother and child 
Fly from each other: 

Husband and wife part in the strife, 
Sister and brother. 


506 


506 WOMEN OF THE SOUTH. 


The wild winds soar, the mad waves roar ._ 
As they whirlingly leap. 

The ship! the storm! Oh, God! she is gone 
Down in the deep. 

The shrill death cries, in the blackened skies 
No answer find. 

The screams of death sink in the breath 
Of the maddened wind. 


ESSIE B. CHEESBOROUGH 


Is a native of Charleston, South Carolina. For several 
years she has been a constant contributor of prose and verse to 
the leading periodicals of the South. Her compositions have 
mostly appeared in the “Southern Literary Messenger,” 
“Southern Literary Gazette,” “ Russell’s Magazine,” “ Southern 
Episcopalian,” “The Southern,” and the “ Charleston Courier.” 
She has also contributed to ‘‘ Godey’s Lady’s Book.” | 


A THOUGHT IN A DREAM. 


As deep in Lethean calm I slept, ‘ 
Whilst pale stars softly, gently crept 
Along the silent heaven, 
And angel wings had ceased their flight, 
Afraid to stir the hush of night— 
A dream to me was given. — 


It may have been the wind’s weird sigh, 
In minor music floating by, 
No music here resembling, 


ESSIE B. CHEESBOROUGKH. 507 


That, faintly heard in land of sleep, 
Did softly to my hushed heart creep, 
Like lute’s ecstatic trembling. 


I know not, but there came a dream 
Like seraph music, soft, serene, 
From silver harps revealing; 
It swept the air with fairy flight, 
It bore my soul with magic might, 
To realms with sunshine streaming. 


For in that dream there dwelt a thought, 
The sweetest, softest ever brought 
On slumber’s silent pinions; 
Oh, loved one, on that charméd night, 
*Twas thought of you that lent me light 
In dream-land’s dark dominion, 


A SKELETON IN EVERY HEART. ° 


Slowly I followed her through a long gallery, where the light fell on rich 
pictures, and gleamed on the cold beauty of marble statues. Here hung the 
““Eece Homo,” with its calm, holy eyes; and the ‘“‘Entombment,” by 
Raphael, with its bowed figures of touching grief. Here, marble Niobes and 
statues of Diana stood side by side, with Bernini’s skull and sleeping child, 
emblems of life and death. But I lingered not to note these rare gems of 
art, as wonderingly I followed my silent conductress through the long gal- 
lery. At length we reached a door, which she unlocked, and we entered a 
small room, dimly lit by a lamp that hung from. the ceiling. No window 
through whose crevices the blessed light of day could steal, illumined that 
dreary room; no furniture stood there save a time-worn couch. From the 
ceiling tothe floor hung a black curtain, that swayed mournfully as the 
signora closed the door hurriedly. With a trembling hand she moved aside 
the funereal drapery, and fastened it back. Oh, horrible sight! There hung a 
grim skeleton from a beam. What meant this awful mystery—this deathly 
spectacle ? and, faint at heart, I sank down on the couch before the dreadful 
sight. Oalm as one of her own marble statues, and as white, too, stood 


508 WOMEN OF THE SOUTH. 


Agnese; but her crimson lip quivered with a grief that she seemed powerless 
‘to express. . 

‘Oh, what means this, Agnese ?” I asked, in tones of agony. She seated 
herself beside me, and said: ‘‘ You say that Jam the happiest woman in all 
Naples. How far you are right you yourself shall judge; it is for this I have 
prought you here. Listen.” 

Slowly swung the dim lamp from the ceiling; a cold, chilling atmosphere 
seemed to surround us; and the grim skeleton grinned in fearful hideousness 
from the beam. I gathered closer to the signora, and looked up into her 
face. How sadly it gleamed out from amidst the gloom that enshrouded us, 
pure, pale, spiritual! | 


EMELIE C. 8. CHILTON, 


Whose maiden name was Swan, was born at Lost Mound, 
Illinois, on the 25th April, 1838. When she was but five years 
of age, her mother died, and she was left to the sole care of her 
father, with whom she lived at Galena, during the first years 
of her school life. Subsequently she entered Rock River 
Seminary, located at Mount Morris, Illinois, where she prose- 
cuted a regular course of study, and graduated with great 
credit to herself and her teachers. Soon after completing her 
education, she visited her relatives in Nashville, and there made 
the acquaintance of James A. Chilton, an intelligent and highly 
respected gentleman of that city, to whom she was afterward 
married. 

Mrs. Chilton gave early indications of poetic talent. One. 
of her best poems was written when she was a mere child, 
attending the grammar school at Galena. Since she became a 
resident of Nashville, she has been a regular contributor to 
several of the journals and periodicals of that city and else- 
where. In May, 1859, she assumed the editorial control of the 


EMELIE 0. 8. CHILTON. 509 


Southern Temperance Monthly,” which her talent and indus- 
try have rendered a popular and elegant journal. Since her 
connection with that periodical, most of her productions have 
appeared in its columns. 


OCTOBER. 


Alone I sit in the old arm-chair, 
For I love to muse on a quiet day, 
And I’m gazing down on the old oak floor, 
Dreamily watching the sunbeams play. 
Noiseless and bright as spirits they come, 
And quietly look through the half open door, 
The beautiful rays of the autumn sun 
Are gently gliding across the floor, 


There’s not e’en the chirp of a bird to-day, 
The noisy jay from his nest has flown, 
And nothing is here save the ticking clock, 
And the cat asleep on the warm hearth-stone. 
October has come with its warm, sunny days, 
And has brought us again its dreamy breeze; 
It has come with its wreath of crimson leaves, 
To twine in a crown around the trees. 


And over the tops of the forest kings, 

Is spread a sky of ethereal blue, 
Before which flit as in mockery 

Those snowy clouds which the sun peeps through. 

. And far o’er the hills where the sky looks down 

To meet the dim line where the forest sways, 
Float dark, gorgeous clouds, which resemble 

Grey, ruined castles of olden days. 


And the little brook, with its moss-grown rocks, 
It babbles no more its merry song, 

But its voice has sunk to a low, sweet tune, 
That you scarce can hear as it glides along. 


510 WOMEN OF THE SOUTH. 


And the grasshopper sings a doleful lay, 
And the sunflower bows her head to weep, 
The vine turns red o’er the old stone wall, 
And the butterfly-worm has gone to sleep. 


And when October has journeyed on, 
Till the frost has silvered his flowing hair, 
The wind-voice wails in a pitiful moan, 
Or shrieks aloud as in wild despair ; 
And hoarse and deep in the chorus blend 
The trees of the forest their surging roar, 
While they strew the gems from their crimson crowns, 
Till the brown old earth is covered o’er. 


And then, as if tired with scenes of strife, 
The wild wind sinks to a hollow moan, 

As if ’twould grieve for the sorrowing hearts, 
Whose dismal wailings are like its own. 

Then the lightsome tread of the squirrel’s foot, 
On the rustling autumn leaves we hear, 

And the fitful sway of the lifeless grass 
Harshly grates on the listening ear. 


So the winds wail on and scatter the frost, 
And all day long caws the gloomy crow, 
And the skies grow dim, and the leaden clouds 
Look coldly down on the scene below 
The earth looks drear in her mourning clad, 
For the lovely things she has seen decay, 
And mournful the season is, and sad, 
When the month of October dies away. 


THE WRENS IN THE LOCUST-TREE, 


I know of a nest which the wild birds built, 
That you. cannot reach, ’tis so high, 

For the tree is strong, and the thorns are sharp, 
And the branches are flouting the sky. 


EMELIE OC. 8. CHILTON. 511 
; * 
The birds sit there and swing in the air, 
And warble a song to me, 
And the notes come sweet to my lone retreat, 
From the wrens in the old locust-tree. 


I know of anest which the wild birds built, 
I watched as they carried the moss, 
And the little dry sticks and tender twigs, 
And so cunningly wove them across. 
*Twas a curious thing, those birds in the spring, 
Were busy as busy could be, 
Hiding day after day that wee nest away, 
’*Mid the thorns in the old locust-tree. 


I know of a nest which the wild birds built 
And they sing to the soft summer air, 

‘* How the leaves will come out and shade us about 
And hide all our eggs lying there. 

And then, by and by, when the sun warms the sky, 
Some sweet little nestlings there’ll be, 

To flutter and hop from our home to the top 
Of this shadowy old locust-tree.” 


I know of a nest which the wild birds built, 
And I sit by my window and look, 

While very, very slow does my needle go, 
And closed is my favorite book. 

The birdie’s sweet lay keeps me dreaming away, 
Of how happy we all shall be, 

They away up above, and I and my love, 
Down here ‘neath the old locust-tree. 


THE END. 








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